


Mit Dir Bin Ich Auch Allein

by struwwel



Series: Ohne Dich Universe [1]
Category: Rammstein
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character Study, Developing Relationship, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Romance, Romantic Soulmates, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:40:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 69,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22852639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/struwwel/pseuds/struwwel
Summary: Good intentions pave the road to hell - or so they say, especially about love. When Till sat down to write that stupid  song about his runaway guitarist, he had the perfectly good intention of nursing old wounds to be able to ignore them a little while longer - and now what should have been a trickle of release is threatening to become a flood that changes everything.
Relationships: Richard Kruspe/Till Lindemann
Series: Ohne Dich Universe [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1837252
Comments: 304
Kudos: 316





	1. Highschool Girls

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT: This will be multi chapter, but I have no idea hiw to get the site to show that without adding the second chapter.
> 
> This is set during the making of Reise Reise and the following tour. The Song discussed in this chapter is Ohne Dich. I was thinking about the way they say they will discuss Lyrics without Till being there and made up a reason for why they made up that rule. I think in actuality they do that for longer but uh, obviously none of this real (insert disclaimer how they don’t belong to me and this is a work of fiction bla bla bla here)
> 
> This is my first fanfiction in over 10 years and the first in english, which isn’t my first language. Please be nice lol. This is Fluff and a bit of angst only, with MAYBE a bit of smut in the last chapter, because I have no idea how to write that shit. Sorry, to everyone who finds that too vanilla. I just needed a bit of wholesome Till/Richard, because the world is a horrible place.

It was cold. It was the kind of creeping and wet cold that works it’s way past the best utility clothes money can buy and straight into bone marrow. It was that late february cold, soaked in neverending rain, that refuses to ever let you feel dry or warm or merely comfortable. It was definitely the worst weather to ride a bike in.

Till somewhat regretted his decision to not take the car. There were roughly 25 kilometers between his flat and their rehearsal space. Only 10 kilometers, if you took the shortest route, but that route lead through Berlin city center and he felt too attached to his sanity today to try and take any vehicle straight through the middle of a metropole. While he slowly lost all feeling in his gloved hands, he attempted to console himself with the fact that the daily workout kept him fit, was good for the environment and he was less likely to get a speeding ticket to boot. If he was being honest with himself, he would have hated going by car equally much, even outside the city center the car traffic was terrible on a monday.

If he was being honest with himself, he thought somewhat bitterly, the knot in his stomach had nothing to do with the cold making his muslces cramp, either. It instead had everything to do with the messily assorted pile of notes that was sealed and securely strapped to his back right now. Maybe his overpriced, especially waterproofed backpack would fail today. _One could always hope_.

Till walked into the rehearsal space a little late, but still early enough to just pass as merely the last one arriving. He had lost all feeling in his hands at that point, and the sudden shock of dry warmth made his fingers tingle with needles and pins. The hair that had escaped his beanie was dripping with icey water and he suddenly felt even more uncomfortable. Grunting, he tossed his (of course miraculously dry) backpack in the general direction of the coffee table infront of the couch and nodded towards Schneider, who was already setting up his drums. He placed the rest of the band in the slightly too small kitchen and decided not to bother saying hello. Instead he walked straight into the bathroom, to grab a towel and get out of the layers of soaked biking gear.

When he got back, his hair was only damp and he had reagined most of his sensations as far as he could tell. The bigger, soundproofed room they used to actually play in was suddenly crowded. 

Richard and Paul were bickering. _Of course_ they were. Paul had a huge grin on his face, self assuredly crossing his arms above his guitar and provoking poor Scholle with a confident glint in his eyes. Richard had fallen into one of his long monologues about the quality of some band Till had never heard of, how Paul had no taste, and _really_ , couldn’t he hear how good they were? He just _had_ to listen again! And besides, the single they had released really wasn’t the best to judge them by and Paul really had to listen to the entire album instead. Olli would like it for sure, because _he_ appreciated quality in music. (Oliver pointedly ignored him.) He was about to grab his guitar off the stand several times but was held back from doing so by his own wild gesturing. His hair was standing up from his head, like always making him look like a particularly pretty porcupine, and while he was still smiling Till could sense the upset rising in him. He was so passionate, and he hated not being understood. _He was cute_.

Till clamped down on _that_ feeling as fast as he could and concentrated on the part of him that felt annoyed. “Just once!” He exclaimed loudly, too loud to be ignored, and slumped down on the old black leather couch. “Just once I would like to come in here without feeling like I am running into a flock of bickering highschool girls.”

Paul just laughed at that and Richard snapped his mouth shut, smiling a sheepish little smile. “You’re just in a bad mood because we’re discussing text today”, Schneider quipped, observant as usual. He always knew where to hit. Literally. Till just grimaced slightly and twisted a strand of hair around his finger nervously. “Stop pestering me and warm up,” he instructed grumpily and threw a shirt someone had left on the couch against Christoph’s cymbal. Olli started picking a mellow bass line almost immediately and Till silently thanked him for drowning out Schneiders protest.

Paul ran over a sloppy riff and caused immediate feedback from the amp and a “God damn it, Paul!” from Richard aswell as a flinch from Flake at the screeching sound. Olli stopped playing and rolled his eyes. He was surprisingly easy to annoy despite always seeming so calm. Schneider hurried to get settled, messily adjusting his cymbals, and moving his bassdrum kick back and forth a few too many times. Flake was still somewhere in his own world and played a messed up chord, if by accident or design was unclear. He didn’t apologize, so it was likely by design. Or he was too embarrassed. Maybe he hadn’t noticed? Who knew. Till sighed and threw his head back against the sofa. It was going to be _that_ kind of day.

After a few more moments of trying to find a common beginning but causing nothing but noise, Richard had enough. “Guys! Stop! Can we actually do this for real now??! Ab-minor. Everyone! Till, do you want to sing?” Till shook is head. “Ok. Now!! Schneider?” Christoph nodded, finally concentrated, stretched a bit, and then counted in and fell into a semi-slow rythm, grooving and maticoulous like a machine. Richard looked at Olli expectantly, who fell into a new rendition of his previous theme. Paul grinned and suddenly the bickering between the two guitarists was replaced with something else. They fell into their customary improvisation almost too easily. After all these years, Till still couldn’t wrap his head around how his band mates did it. How they could just come up with something that sounded like complete music out of nothing. If he voiced his admiration, they would start telling him about music theory and how it all really wasn’t that special, and Till of course knew enough about music to get it. But sitting here, just listening, it was hard to rationalize it that way. They were playing with melodies, tossing them back and forth between them, and Flake occasionally recorded bits and pieces. Some of them became songs. Some where never seen again, and the best parts he frequentely forgot to tape all together. On some days, Till would try and sing something over it right away. It never really worked out, so he tried doing that less and less and more so because it made him feel more included than to actually create something. He needed a good melody line to make a text fit, and he couldn’t find any words under pressure to begin with. So usually, he just sat around, listening, pretending at being part of the group. Sometimes they would practice without him. It made it hard sometimes, to get over his feelings of inadequacy. But it had worked for years now, and he had become more practiced in accepting that this was how they got results.

At some point, around 20 minutes in when everyone was well warmed up, and they had settled into what they all called “the orgasmic phase” where things flowed almost too easily, Richard looked up an caught Till’s eye. He grinned wildly, wide eyed and happy. His smile was so infectious, Till couldn’t help himself and started to chuckle. This was Scholle’s happy place, Till knew, and finally mangaed to relax a bit. There were reasons for doing this, after all.

A little later, they all stood around infront of the soundproofed wall behind Schneiders drumset. The foam coating lended itself perfectly to becoming a pinboard and Olli had carefully put up Till’s random pieces of paper in neat rows with regular sowing pins, making them look alot more organised than they really were. Till stood a few steps back, uncomfortable, with his hands in his pockets. He had been retracting into his “grumpy bear” persona more and more during the last hour or so, while his bandmades hade ripped apart his inner life and he slowly but surely closed in on flipping his shit.

Some of their suggestions were just as well. Yes, ok, _fine_ , they were right even, some lines didn’t fit the rhythm, and some sounded vaguely stupid and would need to be reworked. Some comments he disagreed with, but could live with. And then there were those discussions that just felt awful. Those usually included raised eyebrows and a “Can you explain what that even means”. Sometimes it consisted of everything between “Till, that’s disgusting” to “Till, are you ok?!” (He was. Thank you.) it was those moments that seemed to erase all the praise he got for the majority, all that “Till, wow!” and “how do you even think of that” and they made his skin crawl with embarrassment. He felt stripped naked.

Right now, Paul was giggling over one of the last sheets, and he felt the sweat pool in his hands. He had written it for the latest song his bandmates had come up with, with a slow and mournful melody. Right now, everyone just called it the next Seemann, and that’s what they had told him to do: write another Seemann. Unfortunately it didn’t really work that way. The melody had touched his heart more deeply than he could admit to them in words, and then one night over too much wine and when the loneliness had closed in on him from every corner of the room the words had just tumbled out of him. He had felt better afterwards. But he knew this would be the worst one.

“Till, who knew you had it in you. Maybe you should consider a career change and write for disney.” Paul said, interrupted by laughing fits. Richard smiled too, but he was more careful. “I don’t know. Till, this seems awfully kitschy. It doesn’t really feel like Rammstein.” “It doesn’t at all feel like Rammstein,” Schneider said matter of factly. “I was expecting something more like... well. Something more abstract. More like Seemann.”

“Or like Mein Herz brennt,” chimed in Olli, who was sparse with words but apparently hated this one enough to add to the conversation. Till’s heart sank.

Flake crossed his arms and unexpectedly came to his aid. “I like it. I think it could work.”   
  
“Of course you like it. You’re not exactly immune to Kitsch tho, are you.” Paul rolled his eyes. Richard wasn’t as quick to dismiss him. Flake only added something when he was sure, and his ideas were surprisingly often the ones that made the difference between mediocre and stadium worthy. “What do you mean?,” he inquired. Flake shrugged. “Nobody would expect that. It’s Till. It’s gonna sound honest. We all feel that way when we’re in love. When we do that, it’s a nice contrast. Like, we can say what love is really like.” Paul giggled again. “Yes, ok, we all feel that way, but that is when people listen to Schlager. Which _this_ is.” He added a gagging sound.

“Not everyone listens to Schlager when they are lovesick, Paul. And every big band has a really good Powerballad.” Richard said halfheartedly. Till felt like he only disagreed with Paul because disagreeing with Paul was his autoresponse. He wanted to be very, very far away.

“I don’t know. I kinda agree with both sides.” Schnieder spoke up again. “It has it’s moment, but can’t you spice it up a little? I don’t know, kill somone in the end?” They all looked at him all of sudden. Till squirmed. “I don’t... I really like it the way it is” was his weak attempt at a defense. “Are you serious?” Paul threw his hands up in the air. “Are we what now, the Smiths?” Richard laughed at that, a silvery sound that Till usually loved and that now just made him feel cold. “It has some of that yeah”, the guitarist admitted, grinning. “What brought this on, Till? What’s with the melancholic whining?”

Till looked at the ground. “Just how I feel sometimes.” He mumbled, almost inaudible. “And I really don’t want to change it.” 

“Well I am against it,” said Paul, now serious. “It’s too soppy, and I don’t want Rammstein to become a band with those kind of woe-is-me songs.” Schneider agreed. “Yeah, it’s a little too lovey-dovey.” Richard still looked thoughtful. “Olli?” He asked, intent on getting a vote from the entire band. It was a lesson he had learned the hard way. Olli shrugged. “I think it’s beautiful. But yeah. I see Pauls and Schneiders point. We’re not that kinda band.” “I think we should keep it.” Flake said, and smiled an encouraging smile at Till. Till coughed, feeling very selfconscious. But no. He wouldn’t back down today. “I was proud of it. I want to keep it.” He hated how insecure he sounded but at least he hadn’t given in at the first opportunity. Everyone looked at Richard expectantly. The final verdict was down to him, appearantly. “I think we should keep it for consideration,” he finally said, after some thinking “I don’t want to dismiss what Flake said.” Paul groaned. “Fine. I hope you’re over her tho, Till. Otherwise we might call ourselves Backstreet Rammstein soon.” 

“I’m not over it, Paul, but thank you for your well considered advice. I’ll keep it in mind.” Till spit out with gritted teeth. _Shit, did I really just say that._

It was silent for a moment, and everyone stared at him. “Till”, Schneider said carefully, you know, this isn’t personal, right? It’s just about how well it fits the...”

“It is personal for me!!” growled Till, running a shaking hand through his hair. 

“We know!” Paul chimed in, suddenly looking very, very sorry. “We realize that, but we need to ..”

“No, you don’t!!!” Till threw up his hands. “You don’t. I am putting my soul on the line here. Im sorry Paul, you find it soppy, but that is how I feel. I have felt like this for years and I was happy I finally was able to put words to it, which made it a little bit easier to bear. I don’t need you to tell me it’s too sappy. I didn’t make it up to be a Disney story, it’s how I feel. It’s what it feels like when you’ve loved someone for a decade and know it will never be better. I was proud of how well I expressed it and I brought it to you because I thought it was good. I am sorry my feelings don’t agree with you.”

They all looked at him wide eyed. He had started yelling and suddenly and with a rush of embaressment he realized he was crying. He turned around abruptly and wiped his face. He still felt their eyes on him, large and guilty, and he almost couldn’t bare it. Why had he said that. _Why did he do that._ This wasn’t supposed to happen. _They weren’t supposed to know._ He wanted out. Fast.

“Let’s take five,” Richard interrupted the stretching silence and Till felt relief envelop him as they silently left the room. He could have kissed him right then and there. Say what you will about Richard and his obsessive, workaholic, control freak tendencies, he always knew when they met a dead end. He fought until the last moment, but when there was nothing left to give, Richard always accepted it. It was just one of the qualities he ...

A warm hug interrupted his racing thoughts. Richard smelled of expensive after shave and cigarettes and something very familiar underneath. Till couldn’t quite hold back a single sob as he buried his face at his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“Don’t be silly,” Richard simply said and rubbed his back. “We all know you’re just a big, sappy old highschool girl. Your secret is safe with us.”

Till snorted and had to laugh, despite himself. He let his head rest against Richards shoulder for a few seconds longer, just for good measure befor he detangled himself and wiped his face.

Richard looked up at him with a gentle smile, but there was concern in his face. “Are you ok? Why did you never say anything.” Till made a dismissive gesture and ignored the clenching of his stomach again. “It’s fine. I just need to get over it, that’s all.” Richard studied him for a moment longer, but then nodded. “We’ll talk about that song another time. Ok? It’s good. It’s worth putting the work in. Don’t give up on it. Ok?” Till didn’t really know how to feel about that so he just nodded. Then he said hesitantly: “I think... I think I want to go home. I mean... you can just work on something else maybe? Some of the earlier stuff sounded good...”

“Uhm... yeah sure.” Richard shrugged. “I’ll let the others know.”

Till felt his eyes on him while he started packing his things and got back into his biking gear. He could tell Richard was still concerned, but he would just have to get over it. _He_ would have to get himself under control better. There was no use in worrying Rich, and the last thing he needed was him starting to fuss, no matter how sweet his intentions were.

When he was done and Richard still stood there observing him he sighed.

“Scholle, I’m fine. I promise. Just a bad day. Ok?” 

Richard nodded hesitantly. “Just... if you need anything, say the word. Ok?”

“I will.” Till lied and pulled him in a brisk embrace, mainly to distract him. I’ll see you wednesday.”

“I’m coming outside with you,” Richard said, “I need a cigarette.” 

“You smoke too much.”

“I am aware.”


	2. Mess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard is worried and learns a bit of truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, since this is set in 2004, this collides with Richard living in New York. I tried to draw a bit from personal experiences with living abroad. The whole part where you change personality in a different language is real, you guys. I have spoken to several germans about this, and we all seem to agree our “english personality” is a lot nicer, and I figured that probably fits Richard too.
> 
> Also tried to throw in some minor trivia (looking at you, Paul’s coffee.)

Richard needed a cigarette, but tried to prolong the time until he actually lit one. He tried to smoke less, _really_ , but now he was worried, and the combination of worry and the self imposed lack of nicotine were setting his teeth on edge.

He had been shocked and taken off guard by Till’s tears and somehow couldn’t shake the guilty feeling that he had caused them. Till cried sometimes under pressure, but not like this, not like these bursting open emotions coming out of nowhere. In all the years that he had known him, he’d still seen him cry less than a handful of times over things between them in the band. They all knew Till felt vulnerable when sharing his notes, and even if they had never discussed their conduct during assesment openly, he felt they should have known better than to always put the man on the spot like that.

He growled a bit in frustration and gave in to his craving, lighting a cigarette. He buried his free hand in his jeanspocket against the cold and mindlessly stared down the road that had swallowed up his best friend just minutes ago. This industrial area of Berlin was grey and miserable and seemed to represent everything he hated about germany. It didn’t at all resemble the hip, forward thinking city everybody seemed to be crushing on. He missed New York. He missed his carefully designed apartment and hated the nondescript rental with standardized furnishing he stayed in while they were working on the pre-production for the next album. He missed his friends. Hell, he even missed _himself_ , his slightly less neurotic persona that seemed to emerge in a different language, a different culture and surrounded by a different mindset. Of course, as soon as he was back there, he started missing germany, his band and his family. Whenever he was in New York, he missed the less competitive, strangely oldfashioned atmosphere back home, the reliability of things working the way he was used to, and bread. _God_ , he always missed good bread. There was no winning, really.

How had he not known Till was in love that unhappily? Why had that miserable idiot never said anything? _Why hadn’t he noticed?_ With a sinking feeling in his stomach he remembered Till taking him in, years earlier after his first bad heartbreak. He had let him stay on his couch for days on end, had brought food and drinks to his increasingly unwashed and unlikeable self, and had let him be miserable in peace. Whenever he had started crying, he’d silently sat down with him, holding him, awkward and helpless but with all the best intentions. It had made a world of difference. When things got better, he had dragged him to his feet again and again, forced him to go outside and live until he was slowly but surely distracted enough to eventually stop caring.

In return, Richard apparently didn’t even know his friend was miserable. Sure, he had been out of sight alot these past three years away from home, but Till had talked about a _decade_. He wrecked his brain, trying to remember who Till had been into 10 years ago but came up blank. He had no earthly idea who this could be about. He was not only an absent friend, he was a shitty friend too.

Richard mournfully let his cigarette stump fall into the puddle he was standing in, stamping it out for good measure. He resisted the urge to light a second one with some effort and stared down at his reflection in the dirty water that had accumulated in the hole in the asphalt of the parking lot. He looked surprisingly normal for being an asshole, he found.

His band mates interrupted their chatter the moment he entered the kitchen, staring at him questioningly. They sat cramped around the small table, and Schneider was making coffee.

“He’ll be ok, I think,” he informed them. “But I’ve been thinking. I don’t think he should be here anymore when we look at the lyrics. Maybe it’s better when we discuss this without him. It’s not like he needs to be here while we ...” he searched for a word to put it diplomatically.

“Take him apart?” Schneider supplied helpfully. He clearly felt as bad as Richard. “Yeah.” Richard agreed, relaxing a little bit, “Something like that”.

Schneider nodded. “I agree,” he said. “We should have thought of this way sooner.” 

“I don’t know, guys, this doesn’t feel right,” Paul objected.He looked particularly guilty and kept scratching his head. “It’s like we’re excluding him.” They were silent for a moment.

“ _Don’t_ you think he’ll feel excluded?” Paul pressed after a moment.

“No.” Flake said. “What’s the point in him being there? He’s not around for some of the rest too and is fine. I think he’ll be glad, actually.”

Richard agreed. “It’s not like we’ll force him to stay away. We’re giving him the option. He’ll be glad, I think.”

“Right.” Said Paul and nervously drummed on the table.

“He only feels exclused when we hate what he does,” Flake explained. “Then he thinks we don’t need him and wants to quit everything.”

“Yeah. And that is really fucking _dumb_ of him.” Richard was frustrated with Till’s self deprecation, and his stubborness in refusing to adress it since years, but they all had long since given up on trying to change him. It was what it was. They might as well try to get Paul to be less of an insensitive chatterbox, or Flake to be an ajusted member of society. _Or himself to not be a fucking mess._

Schneider poured a cup of coffee for everyone, but that was how far his service mindedness went. “There’s milk. You better get that yourself, I can’t keep track of how much milk you all want exactly.” He shot an incredulous look at Paul and then stole his seat while the guitarist stood up to take care of the milk issues. Paul knew better than to protest but got his revenge anyway by snatching the last sugar cube before Schneider could take it. “Fuck you,” the drummer said sweetly and then returned to the issue at hand. “We’ll just ask him what he thinks next time. And someone needs to go shopping.”

Silence ensued, this time of the “not me” variety. The lack of volunteers for chores was a band classic that had led to serious fights before and that remained unsolved. It probably would remain unsolved too, as long as they could afford to outsource most of it. Richard stared out the window, lost in thought.

“Oh, for fucks sake, I’ll do it.” Olli snapped and got up. He wrinkled his nose at the unwashed dishes in the sink. “Someone should also clean up in here.” 

“Not me!” Paul and Schneider hurried to say in unison. They laughed and turned their heads to look at Flake and Richard pointedly. “Fine.” Richard was too distracted to argue about such mundane things and Flake just shrugged but said:

“I’ll remember that.”

Richard followed Olli, Paul and Schneider to the door.

“Did ... did any of you know?” he asked, unsure if he should really prod into this. “Does... who is this about?” 

Schneider and Olliexchanged a look.

“Guys?”

“I ... we suspected for a while,” Schneider said carefully. “But ... but not how bad it really is. I thought it was just a crush.” 

Richard felt his heart sinking. Why did _they_ know, but not him?

“Why don’t I know about this?” he demanded to know. “I didn’t know either,” Paul said. “Or well. I guess I kinda knew but yeah. I thought it was water under the bridge.”

Olli rubbed his shoulder, appearantly sensing Richard’s distress. “I think it just never came up before. You were away alot too.” 

“Yeah... maybe.” Richard agreed, sadly.

“As to who, your guess is probably better than ours,” Schneider concluded.

While doing the dishes, Richard considered what he knew. It didn’t really satisfy him. Something about it felt ... off. Till was never open about his feelings and maybe, hopefully, he just hadn’t known because he hadn’t been here. Which was bad enough, but bearable. The alternative ...

Till had been very upset about his move to New York, and had stopped talking to him for about 4 weeks. But that was some time ago now and he had come around quite quickly. Or hadn’t he?!

He threw the dishcloth carelessly into a corner after finishing up and went back into their rehearsal room where Flake busied himself with sorting through their cables and the bits and pieces that always build up around the space and definatly didn’t belong here. Richard often wondered why rehearsal spaces seemed to be to mess what flames were to moths. It seemed to be some force of nature that followed him wherever he went. That wasn’t important right now, however.

“Flake,” he began shyly, “do you know what those lyrics were about?”

Flake, to his surprise, squirmed. _He was on the right track!_ “I... we haven’t really talked much recently. I just want to make sure he is ok. I feel bad I didn’t know about this”, he offered. Flake didn’t like gossip and wouldn’t give him anything without a good reason, he knew.

Flake kept rolling up cables, his back to him and clearly uncomfortable. Something was up!

“I don’t think we should talk about this. I am a really bad liar, and I am definitely supposed to lie to you about this, and it would be a disaster. Or maybe it wouldn’t be, and the fact that I am a bad liar is a good thing because it makes me a good person. But then the fact that I would tell you something someone told me in private would make me a bad person. So that would cancel each other out.” He was babbling.

Richard rolled his eyes. “Come on Flake, I’m not a reporter, I’m not gonna sell - _wait_ , what exactly aren’t you supposed to tell me?! And since when do we have secrets in this band?!” he pressed, determined now.

Flake turned around to him and waved his arms, as if to shake off a particularly bad itch. “Fuck,” he said. Then he surrendered.

“Look Richard, I really don’t think I am supposed to talk about this but... I think it’s about you. About you moving to New York, maybe, but mainly just you.”  
  


Oh. 

_Ohhhh_.

  
  


“I... what?!” Richard said stupidly, and blinked.

Flake sighed, and returned to tidying up. “I think, personally, Till has been in love with you for years,” he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. And perhaps it was.

“That... that explains alot.” Richard admitted, dumbfounded. He collapsed on the couch, his legs suddenly seeming very weak, and buried his face in his hand.“

“My god, Flake, I am such an idiot.”

“Most humans are.”

Richard suddenly felt attacked by a thousand memories. Memories of Till protecting him, putting up with him, being damn too patient with him. Till cooking him food, Till double and triple checking his pyros, Till shutting him up in interviews before he could say something he would regret later. Till defending him, Till letting him fix his eyeliner, Till letting him choose the songs in the car, sullenly suffering through his pop music.

Till’s empty eyes and silence when he had decided to move away.

In the end, Till had actually been the most supportive, despite taking it the worst in the beginning. While he suspected the rest of them had been rather glad to temporarily see the back of him once they were conviced he wouldn’t leave the band, their support had been variations of “good for you”s and “but don’t forget us”’.

Till hadn’t commented, but he had helped him clear out the apartment, researched immigration procedures and had promised to check up on his family every so often. He had driven him to the airport too, the morning after a raging farewell party, eyes hidden under sunglasses and in a terrible mood. Richard remembered him standing on the other side of the glass wall, watching him go through security and until he was completely out of sight. 

He felt a little sick.

“Are you sure?” He asked looking up at Flake, who leaned against the door frame now and observed him with worry written all over him.

“I mean, how do you know? Are you absolutely, a 100% sure?”

“I am never 100% sure about anything. But Till told me, some time ago. He was very drunk.”

“I uh...“ Richard felt his pockets for his car keys. They werent there. _In the jacket in the kitchen_. “I have to go see him,” he said and got up to get his things. He knocked over Paul’s half empty water glass that he had overseen earlier while reaching for his jacket, but paied it no mind. “Do you think he’s home yet?” He ran a hand through his hair, completely ruining it.

“Scholle..” Flake said.

“Do you think I shpuld just tell him I know? Or should I ask about it again and hope he’ll answer?” He was rambling. The rational part of him observed his rising panic and saw what was happening, but he couldn’t get a hold on it. He felt like an elephant was standing in his chest, his thoughts racing around without any real focus. His hands were shaking.

All he could think of were three simple things.

Til loved him. 

Till was in pain because of him. 

And he had to go see him and fix it.

“ _Scholle!_ ” Flake interrupted him.

“Do you think that is a good idea?!”

Richard paused. Was it?

“I... I really don’t know! What do you think?”

“I think it’s a great idea!” Flake said, sounding excited. “But my track record with such matters is absolutely horrifying, which probably means it’s a bad idea.”

Richard stood to think for a moment. Breathing helped, he remembered. 

“It’s probably not great,” he admitted. “But now I know, and not talking about it is probably worse.”

At the door he stopped and turned around again, looking at his friend perplexed. 

“Why on earth has he never said anything?”

Flake just shrugged.

“It’s Till.”


	3. Red leather couch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard confronts Till.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all: thank you all so much for the sweet comments. I really appreciate them. I hope you won’t miss the other bandmembers too much for the upcoming few chapters.
> 
> Now this chapter. I am sure I am not the only one, but I have a ... thing .... (it’s an obsession) with imagining how they live and how their apartments look. It might show in this chapter.

Till opened the door to him with mild surprise on his face that quickly turned into a concerned frown. “Hey! What are you doing here? Is everything ok?”

Richard took a deep breath.

“Till. That song. It’s about me.”

He didn’t phrase it as a question. He had known it was the truth the moment Flake had told him, and had just grown more and more certain on his way here. His heart was beating out of his chest. He hadn’t realized how scary this would be.

Till just stared at him in shock at first. There were a million emotions running over his usually stoic face, and he turned his body away slightly, in a way that made Richard think he would throw the door in his face for a second or bolt. He saw him struggle, desperately fighting to keep control, and he saw him losing. In the end it was a quick defeat. “How,” Till just asked, anger in his eyes and with a clenched jaw.

It took a millisecond for Richard to decide he wouldn’t give Flake up. Some friendships just were too precious to sacrifice in the name of truth.

“That doesn’t matter,” He said, very firmly. It sounded a lot more confident than he felt, and somehow it managed to fool Till too. His shoulders suddenly sagged, all the tension leaving his body. He leaned against the door frame, suddenly looking small and very young. He reminded Richard of the man he had first met, painfully shy, always hiding in a corner somewhere and not saying a word. „Why are you asking if you already know,” he mumbled, barely audible.

“Because I want to hear it from you, genius,” Richard snapped and immediately felt sorry upon seeing Till shrink even further. “And also, I didn’t actually ask.”

Till nodded, eyes cast downwards.

“You should have told me,” Richard insisted, gentler now. “You should have known.. I’d never ... you just should have told me,” he ended lamely, tears suddenly burning in his eyes. _Why didn’t you trust me?_

Till looked at the floor. It was silent for a long while until Richard realized Till wouldn’t say anything more right now. He sighed, and impatiently wiped his face.

“Are you gonna let me in now, or what.”

Till hesitated only for only a second, but it was a second too long. He had never hesitated before and Richard started to doubt coming here. Why did he have to be so impulsive. This was a _horrible_ plan, clearly. Then Till nodded, still mute, and stepped aside, vanishing into the apartment. Richard sighed again and followed him, closing the door behind him. Till had already escaped into the open plan kitchen and living room. He took of his boots, messily kicking them into the corner of Till’s entry room, almost hitting a “Mutter” Golden Record Frame, leaning against the wall gathering dust beneath the coats hanging on the wall. His friend had probably thought about putting it up here and never gotten around to it.

Richards own frames hung in the most prominent spot in his apartment. It was a badge of honor, something to let every single person entering his flat know exactly who he was and what he cared about. The rest of Till’s were proabaly in an attic somewhere, between fishing nets and unfinished carpeting projects, possibly never to be seen again. There were fleeting moments in which Rochard wondered if Till even wanted to be in this band, and why he stayed. 

He followed him into the spacious living room. It was a cozy, messy place with the most comfortable dark red leather couch in the world, packed bookshelves and a collection of oddities that looked like they were stolen from a natural history museum. Some of them probably were.

The coffeetable was coverd in paper, with lines scribbled everywhere, half of whichhad been crossed out. A heavy dictionary was there too, for reference, as well as a few empty glasses and a ravaged ballpoint pen. Till had been working. Then again, when was he not working.

A big oil painting with hazy, somewhat creepy figures hung over the couch. They seemed to be doing something, that could either be sexual or violent or both, and while Richard would have appreciated it in a museum setting, it was mildly unsettling to have it in living space. Everytime he came here, it seemed to be a new one; carefully selected from one of Berlin’s small galleries in support of artists few had ever heard of. There was a big aquarium opposite the couch, bubbling slightly and ommittimg a soft green light. Small, silveryfishes were darting around in it.

In one of the bookshelf leaned a photo against a row of outdated encyclopedias. It was an outtake from their last promo shoot, something the photographer had sent them to be funny because they all were in a fit of laughter and looked very, very dumb. It had appearantly been printed from a home office printer, the white edge still left on. Richard felt stupid. Till had his priorities straight, allright.

Till rummaged around at the fridge and held up two beers in a questioning manner, still without looking at him. He was retracting into his host role, something he was comfortable in and good at. It was his go to, whenever he was nervous.

Richard felt sorry for him. He didn’t need to feel that uncomfortable but it was so understandable and _so Till_ that he did. Richards heart tightened at his selfconscious mannerisms. They should be way beyond that kind of awkwardness, they were too close for this. They had been beyond that for years, as far as he was concerned, and Till being this wary of him made something inside Richard feel ... rejected. It _hurt_ , surprisingly much so. What did he think of him as a person if he couldn’t trust him with something so harmless? He knew it was a selfish notion, and fought against it, intend on not burdening Till any more with his stupid self esteem issues. The problem was, there was a part of him that saw love that should have been his to receive held back from him on purpose. It was the story of his life, and he had never expected Till of all people to write a chapter in that particular shit show, and yet here it was. Or maybe it wasn’t. Till had his own reasons. It wasn’t like he owed him anything. _Maybe you should ask him about it before you jump to conclusions, Kruspe._

“I’ll take it.” he said meaning the beer, and took his bottle gently from Tills hands. He plopped it open and watched Till fall onto the sofa, beer in one hand, burying his head in his other.

“Till...” Richard figured Till probably wanted him shut up and not talk about anything but decided he wouldn’t let him wiggle out of this, so he sat down right next to him, their arms touching. He leaned forward, ellbows on his knees to mirror Tills bent over posture. He touched Tills left hand with the outside of his knuckles, gently and almost caressing. He felt the bigger man tighten bisde him.

“I really wish you would have told me.” He said gently, and something in his tone finally made Till look at him.

“I thought... I thought it would be easier. You know? Because it was so clear to me you’d never want me. I didn’t want to ruin what we had.” There were tears in his eyes now too, and fear, Richard recognised with a pang of sudden understanding, followed by a rush of relief. He _was_ being an idiot. This wasn’t about him.

“Wait, did you think... you thought I would be... angry? Or disgusted?”

Till looked at him with wary eyes. “I... no? Maybe. I don’t think so. I just ... I didn’t want you to feel sorry for me. Or self conscious around me. I just wanted it to stay the way it was. But...” he hesitated. Richard nudged him gently in the side, looking at him with what he hoped was encouragement.

“I thought... I thought you’d never let me touch you again.” Till pressed out and closed his eye in mortification.

Richard blushed when he realised what he meant. He had been accused of being too affectionate by his bandmembers sometimes, although they all suffered his hugs and cuddles good heartedly when it came down to it. Till was his most frequent victim, and the most willing one. He’d fall asleep on him when they waited for soundchecks, planes or just the day to pass on tour, and Till would wake him up by ruffling his hair. He had sneaked into Till’s room countless times whenever he had felt lonely on tour, ever since they had seperate hotel rooms, looking for that bit of warmth and human connection. They would get drunk, and fall asleep wrapped around each other, and Richard had never thought anything of it at all.

He had always taken it for granted. It was comfortable, close, and permanent, more permanent than any girlfriend, wife or even children who grew out of being cuddled by their dad. He understood that Till thought he could take it the wrong way with romantic feelings in the way, but to Richard, the thought that it would stop was absolutely laughable.

He sat down his beer, and moved over to hug him tightly and pressed his lips to Tills temple extra hard to make a point. Tills breath hitched a little before he hesitantly and delicay returned the hug. Richard moved a little to be more comfortable and pressed his face snuggly under his friend’s ear. He hadn’s shaved, and his stubbled cheek scratched over his forhead. It felt nice. 

“You’re a dumb idiot.” He mumbled into the soft skin of Tills neck.

“Sorry.”

They stayed like that for a while. Richard breathed in his scent and realised he had never really thought about the way Till smelled before. It was so familiar: Fresh air, infused with salt and soap and the sweaty smell of male skin. That was nice too.

“Tell me about the text,” he finally asked.

Till shrugged under him. “There isn’t much to tell. It’s just ... I go outside, and then it just hits me sometimes.”

“I’m so sorry.” He really was. 

“Hey.” Till muttered in his ear. “It’s really not your fault, you know.” Tills hand had ended up on Richards back, right under his neck between his shoulder blades. He was rubbing him in small circles, in an enchanting mix of brusque embarrassment and haunting gentleness.

Richard felt tired. He could have fallen asleep like this and not wake up for a few decades, he thought, and nothing would happen to him here. The sense of peace, safety and relief was so strong, it took all the tension and fight out of him. There was a very distant voice that screamed at him to be careful, but he dismissed it. His instincts told him he could let go, because someone finally loved him, and anything that happened outside of that bubble seemed very unimportant.

“I... I’d really like to kiss you.” He said and felt the heat rise in his face. Where was this coming from?

He felt Till stiffen, and then the singer carefully pushed him away. It wasn’t harsh, Richard realised after a moment of shock, it was just to create the space between them to be able to look at each other.

“I don’t think you do,” Till said sadly. “You’ve never even considered that for a second before just now.”

He looked at Tills face, catching the sad look of his eyes. He looked so broken-hearted, he just wanted to comfort him.

He knew the other was right, but that felt strangely insignificant right now. He raised a hand to move Till’s hair out of his face and was about to ignore his objection and lean in to kiss him anyway when he was interrupted.

“Richard...”

“Yes?”

“Please don’t hurt me,” Till begged and the sincerity of his voice shocked Richard into absolute stillness. He was hit by the responsibility like with a ton of bricks, and the reality was like a cold shower. Here he was, owning his best friend’s heart, and had the power to destroy it. It would be so easy, to get carried away in Till’s adoration, in the comfort of knowing he was loved this much. And Till knew him well enough to know that he would be oh so tempted to just let himself fall in to it. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t said anything too. Because he knew Richard, knew how he got carried away on a stream of temporary emotions and then realised too late what was or wasn’t what he wanted. Richard had broken too many hearts to be a safe man to fall in love with. Richard felt sick suddenly. Till’s plea for sparing him turned his stomach.

The other man was looking away from him now, unable to meet his eyes any more. It must hurt, Richard realised, to turn something like this down. He looked so forlorn, the guitarist thought, and something about the way Till avoided his gaze undid him. The determination to not break this man’s heart any more than he absolutely had to settled into him, heavy and cold.

He forced himself to nod mutely, and untangled himself from his friend. He saw regret flash over Tills face as he sat back down next to him, and then how he schooled his expression into the well practiced blankness he had aquired through years of puplicity. Richard hated it. It made him feel shut out. 

Till turned on the TV and settled on some stupid programm incolving cars that neither of them cared about or were interested in. Richard knew it was a distraction strategy and didn’t argue. He needed the time to think. 

He was in the middle of constructing some grandiose speech about how sorry he was, how he never wanted Till to keep secrets from him again and that he really, really didn’t intend to take advantage of him like he had just done just now, when he looked over to him. The bigger man was deteriorating, he knew at once. He had nibbled away the label on his beer, his jaw was clenched and he stared hard at some undetermined spot in the air. His eyes were large and glistened. Richard realised with a start he was fighting against a flood of tears. _How do you expect me not to hurt you, when I already do_. He didn’t voice his thoughts tho. He knew Till long enough, and realised what he needed.

“I’ll go up and sleep.” He lied, and got up. The thought of finding sleep tonight was ridiculous, but he knew Tills guest room would be ready for him, and the man needed a break. He carefully rested his hand on Till’s shoulder for just a moment.

“You’re my best friend. I’m here if you want to talk. And you have eternal permission to touch me whenever you like. Nothing changes. Understood?”

Till looked up to him, suddenly unable to hold back the tears finding their way down his scarred cheeks. He nodded.

“I think,” he said, sounding choked, “I’d like to never talk about this again.” Richard sensed the danger behind that request, a wave of darkness and pain that looked threatening and vile. And yet, in that moment he couldn’t say no to him.

“You got it.”

“Thank you.” Till whispered.

And that was that. 


	4. Blow, Whisky, Rum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard and Till suffer through a pretty shitty Aftershowparty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry, people. I just like angst, ya know?!
> 
> One thing I feel I need to explain is the rubber duck. I have, through a stupid stroke of luck, actually spend quite some time in the entourage of a somewhat known european band, and if there is one thing I have learned it is one of those things shows up on every tour. It’s either that, or a Flamingo. It’s law of nature. Nobody knows why.

Till leaned against the wall outside his dressing room and watched Richard flirt shamelessly with the gorgoeus brunette over his second whisky. The man had that way about him sometimes, where his excitement turned from being really annoying into unresistable charme. Eyes twinkling, cute smile, happy gestures and all that. There were few people that were immune to it, and the fact that Richard was completely unaware of how lovely he could be just made it that much more enchanting. His attention was like a ray of sunshine when he was like that, unthreatening and warm. Till longed for it to be directed at him, but these days that happened rarely. Back in the day, when they would live it up on the streets of Schwerin, he had sunbathed in it like it would never run out, but today there was too much in the way that held Richard back from being so unconcerned. Business, band, band-business, creative struggles, New York, that _fucking_ hell hole that had somehow whisked him away. And now, since a while, self consciousness.

Till took another sip of whisky and saw the woman with the high fashion model looks slowly lose her cool. It was a scene he had lived through what felt like a million times. It hurt, but he couldn’t look away, it made his nerves scream with over-stimulation and yet it was so normal. Same snowwhite looks, same cheeky smile, different city, different day. The alcohol burnt on his lips as he observed Richard lean in and whisper something in her ear. Jealousy roared in his chest like a deranged boar. Some lucky fan who had snatched a backstage pass from who-knew-where asked him for a photo.

The small commotion that always started to build around him sooner or later drew Richard’s attention. Till signed someones vest, forcing himself to smile at the puddle of a person in front of him. Richard said farewell to his conquest with regret on his face. A girl complimented his hair, and then Richard was next to him, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder, starting a commotion of his own. Tills face hurt from smiling too much. He wanted another whisky.

A little while later, after many pleading looks at their security team, someone had felt mercifull enough to shoo away the fans. They ended up sitting next to each other on the small couch in Tills dressing room, knees touching. The space was a mess of spilled snacks, scattered clothes and for some unknown reason, a big, blow up rubber duck. Till’s thoughts slowly began to feel clearer, and he felt a faint urge to clean up. With the clarity came shame, and the animal in his chest turned into a black hole, eating up the very last bit of post-concert excitement. He was too sober for this shit. 

“You don’t need to do that, you know,”  Till grumbled, and poured himself his 3rddouble whisky.

“Do what?”

“The pity party. I’ve survived seeing you fuck before. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

Richard just stared at him. There was a hurt look in his eyes and his jaw tightened but he didn’t defend himself. Till wished he did. He wished Richard would fight with him, like they used to instead of looking at him with that fucking understanding gentleness. He wished Richard would stop tip toeing around him and walking on eggshells all the time. This was what he had been afraid of, and now it was here and he hated it more than he ever could have imagined. Richards attempt at not hurting him turned out to only stifle him. In the past, he would have watched Richard take off with Snowwhite, and would have drowned his jealousy in vodka and pussy. The next day, he would have made Richard laugh and turn a delightful shade of red with an unending stream of embarassing teasing and inappropriate questions. 

Now, he drowned his jealousy in whisky because the bar in this godforsaken venue had no vodka. He really didn’t feel like he wanted pussy with Richard stitting next to him and on top of it felt like he had ruined something for him.

He wanted Richard back into oblivion. He kind of wanted to be dead. He kind of wanted back to that night, and not be so damn reasonable. In retrospective, turning down Richard’s kiss was just one of those stupid, adult things he had done, that only ended up hurting like a bitch. Better to have loved and lost and all that. 

Right now, acutely, he wanted to stop feeling like those deepset steel blue eyes observing him were scanning his soul. They were alot warmer than they had any right to be, and if he stayed here for a second longer he might aswell walk into Richard’s flamethrower at the next opportunity. 

He waved over a crew member passing by, carrying bottles of booze over to the Party going on in Schneider’s dressing room.

“You should stop drinking,” Richard said, again sounding way too fucking gentle. Not becoming defensive was very unlike him, and it made Till _mad_. He was supposed to act _normally_.

“Nah,” Till said. “I think I should drink more. And then find that beautiful girl you discarded and fuck her happy.” He got up and left Richard behind, his gaze burning between his shoulder blades. He could see the forlorn look on his face without looking at him. If possible, he felt even worse.

He didn’t end up seeking out any girl after all, had never really intended to. Instead he took a bottle of whisky to take to his hotel room and left, feeling unable to hold up even one more line of conversation. At the hotel, the loneliness crashed down on him like a badly constructed building after an earthquake, poking painfully at his joints and muscles. There was a physical ache to being unhappy, that by this point seemed so familiar he hardly noticed it anymore. He stared at himself in the mirror, disgusted by the drunk look on his face, the scars on his cheeks and the remaining make up that just made him look filthy. That was just aswell, he figured. _I guess this is how people who treat their friends like that typically look._

He couldn’t bring himself to shower despite of it, suddenly feeling way too tired, and just sank into the bed and drank a little more. He couldn’t get rid of Richard’s face swimming before him. He couldn’t get rid of the way Richard had caught his gaze across the room, and the guilt that had plastered itself across his features when he realised Till was watching them. He couldn’t get rid of the relief at not having to see Richard take of with her, either. He hated himself.

It had been easy, at first. Surprisingly easy. They had fallen into their old rythm as if nothing at all had happened. Old habits died hard, Till supposed, and that helped. Not being on tour helped too, there was always a going home from the strain of pretending Richard _didn’t_ pretend not to know about Till being in love with him. At the studio, it was tougher, but even then the steady rythm of working through take after take after take until it was all done had a soothing quality.

There had been just one moment early on, when it had all threatened to fall apart. Till had fully intended to simply never mention that cursed song ever again, but by that time somehow everyone else seemed to have fallen in love with it. Schneider had come around in the uncomplicated way he always did (“Guys, I changed my mind”). Olli had nodded along and Flake faught tooth and and nails for it until even Paul had grumpily admitted that maybe it wasn’t _that_ bad. Richard had watched the discussion unfold silently, his expression hidden under his goth looks and make up and impeccable hair, and by the time he was asked for his opinion he had simply said, “Obviously the vote is aready through. We’re doing it.” He said it matter of factly, but there was and edge of pride and satisfaction underneath it, so well hidden Till doubted that anyone but himself would have ever noticed.

It filled Till with mixed emotions: pride because he _was_ happy with how it had turned out, he was _happy_ that Richard seemed to like it, and shame, because he felt like he didn’t need a reminder of _that_ day all the time.

When the time came to record it, he almost didn’t manage it until Richard had made up some bullshit excuse as to why he didn’t have to be here watching each of them record individually, _surely_. He did it with an expression of boredom so obviously fake that Till winced and expected everyone to be onto them the next second, but they all had just accepted it, and Paul had grumbled “can you be gone while I record too, instead of breathing down my neck all the fuckung time.” Richard had thrown a pick at his head and had left for two days with an “absolutely not.”

Till felt so thankful, he fell in love with him all over again. He nailed it on the second take, and then had resisted the need to text Richard that he could please come back _now_ and claim that stupid kiss already. 

When Richard did come back, an excited Flake had insisted on playing his take to Richard right away, because of course he just _had_ to listen to how good it had turned out. He had caught Richard’s eye from across the dinner table, and they had smiled at each other in a mixture of embarrassment and exasperation over their bandmates. Till had snuck to bed early, because no, he didn’t need to listen to his own voice again, thank you. He needed to see Richards reaction even less.

Olli had observed him suspiciously at that point, but hadn’t said anything.

There was another hot second, during the video shoot, when Flake had tried to convince them that the role of carrying Till up the mountain should better fall to Richard because it would “look less ridiculous.” They had both refused, avoiding eye contact, and Flake had stomped off after hissing a frustrated “you are both dumb assholes” at them. The rest of the shoot had actually been fun. 

It was on tour, that the cracks began to show. There were too many emotions brought to the surface under the strain of adrenaline, alcohol and cocaine, the ice too thin to always hold. They were tired all the time, too tired to always manage to keep up their act. Richard would make a stupid joke about how he would like to have sex in his 6 people marriage more often during an interview and instead of ignoring the pain in Tills face he apologized afterwards. Till made a point to avoid any situation that had Richard coming to his room or sitting next to him on the plane at all costs, until Richard spit out an angry “I thought you were _afriad_ I wouldn’t let you touch me” when he was drunk.

Till had felt awful at that, and the next day he had let Richard sleep with his head on his shoulder, dreading and hoping for their transcontinental flight to be over soon.

Tonight was just another slip up, in a series of slip ups, and at this point Olli wasn’t just suspicious anymore, he was fully in the know and the whole fiasco was pretty much an open band secret. They never said anything, of course, because they were good friends like that, but they were sympathetic. It was Paul, of all people, who had taken drunk, moody and clingy Richard off his hands just yesterday after a look at what must have been his tortured expression.

And now this. He had noticed Richard trying to avoid shoving his one night stands into his face, but it hadn’t been as obvious as tonight before. He felt angry at him for doing that, for breaking their agreement like that, and at the same time he couldn’t erase the tiny glimmer of hope that bloomed in his chest whenever he realised Richard was protecting him. It made him even angrier, because of course he knew it was completely futile.

Till put his half drunken whisky on the bedside table and rolled to the side. 

The truth was, it was harder too, because Richard on tour was his favorite Richard. It always seemed like he was somehow sharpened a little, becoming even more of himself than he usually was without being as much of a pain as he could be in the studio.

He lit up on stage, the only one of them the rockstar role had ever really suited, the only one who felt comfortable up there unironically. Off stage, he strutted around in his black coat, being otherworldly pretty and then made a dirty joke that made his interview partners extremely uncomfortable and Till wanted to shake his head at him but couldn’t, because it gave him some deep sort of satisfaction when his pretty-boy-looks Richard blindsided them like that.

The next moment he would have a conversation with his guitar tech, that sounded so professional and technical, Till gave up on following it after 3 sentences and just let himself fall into watching his determination and drive, that fight in him to be yet a little bit better, even tho not a single person in the audience would ever hear the minute difference they cooked up.

Of course, there was another side to him too, one that made Till hurt with helplessness because protecting him seemed so insurmountable. That Richard stood in the empty arena before the gigs and tried to become friends with the local sound dude who thought “rammstein is a bit too showy for my taste, personally” by involving him in yet another nerdy conversation in an attempt to convince the asshole he wasn’t _just_ show.

It was the same Richard who wanted to call home after the aftershowparty only to realize that the time difference meant no one would pick up. He would mope around in his dressing room, lost and vulnerable after everybody else had left, trying to make the high last just a second longer. That Richard still idolized all the stars of his youth, becoming shy and starstruck when they played with the big names at some festival, completely oblivious to the fact he had already won over all of them without even trying. He loved that Richard just as much, and wanted to yell at him that he didn’t need all those people to love him because he was already perfect. Instead, he just did everything to try and keep the blow out of his hands without him noticing.

——

Richard looked after Till with pain curdling into something darker in his chest. He regretted confronting him for the thousandth time. He couldn’t even really remember why he had done it. It had been an instinctive action and, as many times before that, his instincts were a pathetic bunch of dysfunctional bullshit barometers. In that moment, all that had mattered to him was being loved by somone who he knew loved him for being _him_. Not his guitar, not his status, not his looks, not his talents. Till knew everything about him. The dark, the ugly, the selfdoubt. Till had cleaned up his shit, wiped off his tears and taken his abuse and he _still_ loved him. The relief at being loved after all the drugs and neuroticism that he had put him through in recent years had blinded him. He hadn’t thought beyond that, hadnt thought of the reality of those feelings standing between them. Till of course had. He had had more time, and more sense, and he had recognised how swept up in the moment Richard had been and had saved him from ruining more than he already had.

The problem was, tho, that by now Richard _had_ thought about it. And whichever way he tried to turn things, he always ended up back there, on the couch, with Till asking him not to hurt him and turning down his kiss. 

What would it have been like? He had never kissed someone that he was close to like that before. Till would be very gentle, he knew. He’d kiss him with so much love. He’d taste of beer, or vodka, or maybe just applejuice. He was bigger, and taller and he could lean against him. He’d not have to be scared to do something wrong, and he was certain Till was an excellent kisser. Richard wanted to be kissed like that very much.

It had taken Richard less than a week after that fateful day at the rehearsal space to realize that the queasy feeling in his stomach was as much longing and desire as it was nerves.

The problem was, he had no idea what to do with those feelings. He did feel sure he had gotten over the initial, embarrassing, high of “oh someone loves me” quite quickly and it wasn’t just that. Till desperation had sobered him up from that pretty fast. No, what he was left with now was something else, something that confused him and made him awkward.

What he knew was that 1. he wanted to know where it could lead and 2. subjecting Till to that experiment only for his own sake was cruel, selfish and the risk of hurting him too great. He didn’t know what to do. He felt utterly lost, and where in the past he would have adressed his lack of orientation by getting hopelessly drunk on Till’s couch and let Till’s calm, realistic arguments sort him out, this time he was on his own. He felt like the loneliness was eating him up, and he wanted to throw himself into Tills arms to make it stop forever.

It was true, that he had never considered being with a man, let alone Till. It simply never had occurred to him, as if there was some corner of reality where his mind just had refused to go. Now, that seemed quite strange, when you really thought about it. The person he was closest to was Till. They had done everything together, sex being the obvious exception. It was a running gag, that six man marriage with a horrible sex life. Even the jokes weren’t the same anymore.

He closed his eyes and rested his head against the couch and imagined being able to rest his head on Till’s shoulder instead, and the man’s arms around his waist. It would be nice, he thought, being with someone who could take his weight, and he cursed the way the heat bloomed in his loins at that thought.

He sat up with a start, frustrated with himself and shook his head to shake off the image. He was alone in a dressing room, with a stupid rubber duck as his only companion. It was pathetic really, to be left behind like that by the person that was supposed to _love_ you, and then drown in horny self pity like that.

He forced himself to get up, to try and find some more booze and maybe someone to hang out with tonight, seeing as Till wasn’t up for it. Sending that girl away hadn’t been a sacrifice, it had been easy, and he had thought they could actually spend some time together, which they hadn’t done in what felt like a million years. If Till wanted him to pretend so fucking much, would it really hurt him to do the same and stand being in the same room with him for more than 5 minutes? It was a thougjt that crept in on him since they were touring more and more each day. It seemed unfair. He did his best, but it felt like Till wasn’t upholding his part of the deal.

When he left the room, he kicked the stupid rubber duck, _hard_. It felt very justified.

  
In the hallway, he ran into Olli and Flake, who were about to sneak of.

“We’re leaving,” Flake said unnecessarily and Olli added “it’s getting too loud.”

“You and everybody else,” muttered Richard under his breath but just nodded at them. Olli narrowed his eyes at him.

“You should come too. Take a break from all this.” Flake nodded enthusiastically. “We have cheese crackers. And we will order Pizza,” he offered.

Part of him was tempted. It would be nice, he thought, to just have an evening amongst friends and food and forget about all the drama. But no. It would be incomplete without Till, and Till might still be around here somewhere. He shook his head. “No,” he said, “I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a good night, yeah?”

He left them behind, following the noise coming out of Schneider’s dressing room. The moment he entered, he was hit by a cacophony of voices and music. The place was packed. It was hard to imagine how all these people even fit in here. 

Till wasn’t there, of course. The girl he had talked to earlier now amiably talked to Schneider, and seemed alot more into him than she had been into himself. Richard felt glad at, he didn’t like disappointing somoene and felt comforted that she still had a good time. He scanned the room where everyone seemed to have cooupled up in one way or another. No one seemed to notice him at all and suddenly he didn’t just feel lonely, he felt unbelievably alone.

He surrendered and pulled out his phone, his anger seeming childish all of a sudden. He quickly typed out a simple text: “Where are you? I miss you.” He stared at it for a moment, and then deleted the second part. He hit send without much hope. Till didn’t check his phone more than absolutely necessary.

“Hey Rich! What’s up?” Paul was beside him suddenly, grinning from ear to ear, his arm tightly around a very tipsy and very happy looking woman. His girlfriend had been flown in this morning, Richard remembered. Everyone assumed these two were in it for the long haul, and their happiness made him ache with jealousy.

“Oh hey, you two!” He forced a smile. “I’mjust... standing here.”

Paul frowned. “Hey, Richard are you all right? You look.. not happy.” 

“I’m ok.” Richardd avoided his friends gaze. “Just a bit tired, that’s all.”

“Well, Ari and I are gonna leave. Get some private hours in.” Pauls eyebrows wriggled suggestively and Richard almost smiled for real. “Talk to someone, Ok? Hell, talk to Till. You’ll figure it out.” He waved at him and took off, to wrapped up in his own joy to notice Richards shoulders curling inwards and his mumbled “Yeah ... sure.”

With Paul gone, Schneider was the only bandmember left, and Richhard did not want to interrupt his conquest. After hesitating, he reluctantly joined some of the crewman, chatting in the corner of the room.

“He guys ... do you know where Till is?”

“Nah, sorry Dude.” 

“Probably fucking some chick somewhere, or two...”

“I think I saw him leave alone tho.”

“Ah, but Till never stays alone.” 

  
They started cackling at that.

Richard felt depleted but forced himself to laugh along with them. He was an outsider here too, he realized. They all got along greatly, but Richard was the guy paying thier salary and when he was gone they probably chatted about him the way they talked about Till now. He knew what they were saying were just cliches and untrue, but it stung all the same. He stole some of their rum, waved at them, and moved on to the support band, who seemed drunk out of their minds.

They didn’t know where Till was either, butthey distracted him for a while, pressing him for industry secrets, tour stories and the secret of success. Richard secretly wondered _what on earth_ gave them the impression that he had any of his shit together, but gave them a few anecdotes that were mildly funny and absolutely hilarious to their starstruck, drunk minds.

They were in the middle of making plans of visiting some local, appearantly legendary club, when their drummer pressed a small bag of white powder into his hand, as a “thank you, for letting us come along.” Richard shook his head, said “I am really not supposed to do that as much anymore,” and longed for the irresponsible enthusiasm of the past, when he had been just like them. 


	5. Light switch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard doesn’t let Till get away with his avoidance tactics.

Till woke up from loud banging directly against his skull. It pulled him up from some horrible, alcohol induced nightmare that he already started to forget, and he winced in pain.

“What now!!” he growled, but the noise wouldn’t stop. Still half asleep, he forced himself up and fumbled for the light switch. “If this isn’t the end of the world, I will fucking kill you,” he informed the person on the other side of the door under his breath, and then half yelled “I am coming!” In his most threatheing voice.

The banging still didn’t stop until he opened the door.

“Where were you?”   
Richard barged in, an empty rum bottle in hand, before he even could contemplate who was visiting him in the middle of the night. He brushed past him so violently, Till had to grab the doorframe to steady himself. It took Till one look to see he was drunk and in a scary mood.

“Yes, why _don’t_ you come in, dearest Richard” he grumbled, a little shell shocked.

“I was here. Sleeping, in case you really wanted to know,” he added, a little friendlier, and closed the door quitely. He slowly started to feel more awake.

Richard threw himself face down unto his bed, arms outstretched and feet just hanging over the edge. He mumbled something into the bedding that he couldn’t make out.

“I can’t hear you.” Till pointed out, still reeling from this sudden intrusion into his sleep, his space and his mental state.

Richard rolled around, looking up at him. He shielded his eyes against the lamp in the ceiling, his eyes probably made sensitive by the strain of stage lights and too much alcohol. “I _said_ ,” he bit out sharply, “that you fucking _suck_ at checking your phone.”

Till looked back, feeling oddly naked under those reproachful eyes in just his boxers and shirt. With some effort he unfolded himself and picked up his phone from the night stand. “I have heard that before,” he conceded and flicked it open to read his texts. There was one by a manager, asking him please not to ruin any more microphones, and 3 by Richard.

He opened the first one.

“Where are you?”

The second one was a little more vehement.

“Fuck, seriously. Where are you!!!” 

Till felt a bit bad at that one. Maybe he should check his phone more. _Maybe you shouldn’t just leave your friends standing there, like a petulant child would._

It was the third one that made his stomach twist.

“Please call me! I need you.”

Till swallowed. He looked up at Richard, and observed him carefully. His hair was a mess, his eyeliner smudged to something that resembled dirt more than anything. He was drunk, but not horribly so, and yet his skin had a weird transparent tone to it, that could stem from anything between alcohol, lack of sleep or being ill. To someone who knew him well, he looked very, very vulnerable, and worse, angry and jittery. It wasn’t too obvious, maybe someone else wouldn’t even have noticed, but it was there. Till guessed he had any right to be angry after earlier, but seeing him this distraught was a little shocking.

“I’m sorry.” Till said, not sure what else there was he could say. “I’m here now? What happened? What do you need?”

“Whatever.”Richard closed his eyes. His hand hanging over his face shook slightly. “I just don’t want to be alone tonight.”

Till winced. Lonely Richard could be a terrible, _terrible_ thing, and he felt even worse about leaving him earlier. He lived in fear of those episodes when Richard would retract into quiet sadness until someone found him somewhere, panicking and in tears because he couldn’t get a handle on those feelings. He had gotten better, so much better, especially recently. He had learned to ask for help before it was too late and had given up on desperately trying to distract himself with too many drug. Till admired him for it and the thought he could have missed his plea for help was making him sick.

Till looked at the sheen of sweat on Richard’s face and the thought suddenly came to him. He put down his phone and finally sat down on the bed next to him. He had to do this very carefully. After hesitating for a moment more, he put a hand on Rochard’s leg and rubbed it gently.

“Richard, did you take anything?”

Richard scoffed and opened his eyes. He looked straight at him, with a glassy look and a bitter tension around his mouth and then squeezed his hand into his skintight jeans’ pockets with some effort. It pushed up his shirt a little, revealing a stripe of pale, soft skin. Till forced himself not to look away, or to swallow to visibly or do anything similarly inappropriate. The man was so beautiful, even like this.

Richard drew out a little plastic bag filled with white powder and dangled it in front of Till’s face. Then he threw it at him.

“Nope. Actually behaved like a fucking grown up today.”

Till release a breath, picked it up and put it on the nightstand.

“Move over,” he commanded, and watched Richard scramble to take off his shoes and to create space for him to lay down next to him. They stared at the ceiling together for a while until Till said “Talk to me.”

Richard didn’t reply right away.

Till already thought he wasn’t ever going to when he moved, suddenly, throwing is upper body over Till’s midsection, face turned away from him, hugging him tightly.

Till let out a sharp breath, both in surprise and from the sudden weight on him, but then hugged him back almost automatically. His right hand fell into the nape of his friend’s neck as if it was just supposed to be there. He buried his fingers in Rich’s full black hair. He couldn’t help himself and started playing with it without thinking. Richard felt so warm and soft so close to him. There was a voice in his head screaming at him to not be stupid but even if he had tried, he couldn’t have pushed him away at this moment. He had missed touching him way too much already.

“Schneider’s fucking my girl.” 

Richard finally spoke.

“Eh.. oh.” Till replied lamely, blindsided by the statement and by the sharp pain the words caused him.

“I don’t care.”

“Ok...?”

“I just said she’s my girl to make you jealous.”

Till stilled his hand in Richards neck. He had absolutely no idea what on earth he was supposed to reply to that. He didn’t even know what to feel about this. His mind just came up blank.

“You know. To get back at you for leaving me there.”

Till slowly started to stroke his hair again. It was a bit sticky, from sweat and desintegrating styling products, but he found he didn’t mind. It felt like wet silk between his fingertips and kept his fingers busy while he worked through his messy thoughts.

He didn’t like being manipulated, but it was nice Richard cared to try, he supposed. He had admitted to it right away, too. A sweet warmth spread in his chest, something he knew wasn’t trustworthy but felt nice all the same. It didn’t really make sense, but Richard’s emotions often didn’t when he felt lonely. He’d try to hurt people just to get back at the world hurting him, and usually it hit the people closest to him.

“You don’t have to try to make me jealous, you know,” Till said gently. “I am managing that just fine on my own.”

“Did it work, tho.”

“What?”

“Are you jealous?” 

Till stopped moving again. He didn’t want to feed into Richards tactics. He had seen them too often before, and feeding into it never ended well. At the same time, he couldn’t lie to him, and the more he stretched out the time to give his answer, the less likely Richard was to believe him if tried to avoid the truth. He surrendered.

“Yes.” He said simply and continued playing with Richards hair.

“Good.” The other man said, voice tight.

“You’re an ass.” Till said, letting his hand travel down his spine to rub his back kindly to take the sting out of his words.

Richard didnt speak for another few minutes, but then admitted “I know.” His voice held resignation, as if he took that statement as something that meant not just his behaviour in this moment but his entire person. Till wanted to protest that but didn’t know how to phrase it.

“I have bad taste.” He finally offered. Richard scoffed. “ _Obviously_.”

They were silent for a while after that. Till listened to Richard’s breathing, regular, deep, and a little laboured from being drunk and a chain smoker. There was a tension in his shoulders, as if he was expecting something bad to happen.Something was eating him up, Till could tell, but he knew he wasn’t gonna get what it was out of him just by asking.

There was something happening here, he realised. It was almost as if they were in a time bubble, where tomorrow didn’t exist aswell as their agreement to never talk about it again. He had started it with acknowledging Richard had dumped that girl for him, and Richard had continued it now, by openly attempting to still rise that jealousy out of him he initially had tried to protect him from. Now, they could say anything without repercussions and consequence. He knew it was partly down to being drunk, but it wasn’t just that.

Keeping up an act was hard. So hard. On both of them. He sometimes felt that if he had to go through one more day where he couldn’t just pull Richard into his arms and kiss him and tell him he loved him, he would go insane. It had somehow been easier before, when noone knew. It had been his little secret, something he carried around with him, hurtful as it was, and pretended to be something unspeakable and sacred. Being out in the open and with Richard’s way to kind reception, it had become more real, the pain somewhat more cathartic but also sharper.

He could see it wear on Richard too, who was so sensitive he seemed to always pick on every emotion in the room.

They had worldlessly agreed to take a break from it, just for tonight, it seemed. There was danger in that, but that would be _tomorrow_. Tonight was safe, and they could say and do everything.

“ _I_ don’t really think I have bad taste,” He therefore confided finally.

Richard moved at last, lifting himself up to turn to look at him. He rested his arm across Tills chest, half buried his face in it and looked at his friend with only his eyes visible. His gaze was surprisingly even, considering his alcohol levels. Till squirmed a little under the intense scrutiny but didn’t look away.

“Till, are you really in love with me?” Richard asked, his voice very small.

Till realised he had never actually told him. Maybe it was unfair, expecting so much from him and just assuming him to know why he did what he did. Till still didn’t know how he had figured it all out but suspected Flake had blabbed about it. It didn’t really matter. It was dishonest either way, never actually having talked about it.

He gently ran his hand through the black hair in it’s entirety now, savoring the feeling of the dark mess running thorugh his fingers. Then he cupped Richards face with his other hand. He was surprised when he felt him leaning into it, just a little. He ran a thumb over his cheek, very lightly. Richard swallowed, his eyelids fluttering. He looked ... _scared_?

“I love you. I’m in love with you.” Till said quitely. His voice sounded strange to his own ears. “I think I always have been.”

Richard held his gaze for just a moment longer and then rested his head against his chest again, returneing to his former position. “You deserve better,” he said, sounding eerily calm.

“I don’t think the concept of deserving has anything at all to do with this.” Till felt relieved. It had felt good saying that, he realized, and hugged the man draped over him a little tighter, wanting to hold him back from what ever hole he was tumbling into. “One could argue you deserve better, too.”

The silence after that was different, Till thought. More comfortable, and as if they were actually close again. He realised how much he had missed that feeling, and how much it had been compromised lately. He felt guilty. Richard must have felt it too, and he hadn’t done anything to deserve losing a friend in the first place.

  
Till worked up the courage to ask the one question he really needed an answer to.

“Does it make you uncomfortable at all?”

Richard shook his head vehemently. 

“No.”

“Are you sure?” And then, because there was always a little devil sitting on his shoulder, he added: “You do realise I masturbate to memories of you, right?!”

Richard laughed a little, despite himself. It was that silver sound that Till loved so much, hearty and comforting. He rubbed Till’s stomach suggestively, clearly mocking him. He still was looking away from him, but Till could imagine the provocative smile on his face perfectly. It made the heat rise to his face and he was glad Richard was looking the other way.

“I should hope so! I’m pretty hot.”

Till playfully slapped the back of his head. “Very humble.”

Richard hummed, getting serious again. He wasn’t quite ready to lighten up, it seemed. Till continued to draw little circles into his hair and closed his eyes. If it were up to him, he could live with staying like this until the end of the world.

Unfortunately, being on his back pinned down like this wasn’t exactly a position to comfortable die in. When he at last started to be too stiff and unnatural, he nudged Richard to move, so he could turn on his side but Richard just tightened his grip.

“Will you let me be comfortable?” Till enquired.

“No.” Richard said, sullenly. He was being childish.

“Then you have to kill the light at least. I can’t reach it from here and it kills my eyes.”

Richard moaned. Then he moved untangled himself from him and slowly got up. Till felt disappointed and hit by cold air. The withdrawal was painful and immediate. “That’s not what I meant...” he mumbled under his breath, embarassed.

“Bathroom,” explained Richard curtly and Till watched him go, bleary eyed and stumbling a bit.  
  


Till listened to the water running whit increasing anxiety. He didn’t really know what was happening. Was Richard staying? Would he sleep next to him? _Could he even do that?_ The magic of the moment seemed to have disappeared, as quickly as it had come, and he already missed it. Now it just felt awkward again, with tons of questions and no clue as to how he was supposed to behave. He had just settled on just following Richard’s lead and let whatever happened happen because there wasn’t any real alternative, when Richards head poked out of the bathroom. His face looked clean now.

“Can I borrow some clothes?” he asked. “Hmm.” Till agreed. “Left half of the suitcase.” That was _normal_ , he reminded himself. This was standard procedure since 10 years. All of this had happened before. No reason to read into it. _None_.

He heard Richard rummage around more than he saw him and then he disappeared into the bathroom again. Water running, once again. Till tried to get comfortable and remembered he probably looked horrible and was still somewhat dirty. It wasn’t a good feeling.

When Richard came back, he looked considerably better than before. The sweaty sheen was gone, although his hair was still a mess, and his eyes just looked tired and a little drunk now. He wore one of Till’s shirts, that just looked a tiny bit too big on him, and boxers. On the way to the bed he stopped, suddenly seeming shy. “I can stay here tonight ... right?” He was very cute and Till was sure his heart had tripled in size from the request.

“Of course,” said Till, hoping his heartbeat’s sounds didin’t travel across the room. It felt very likely that it did.

“Good,” said Richard and killed the lights. They were plunged into Darkness. Till heard Richard shuffle the rest of the way to the bed and then curse colourfully when he ran into it. 

“Goddamnit, fuck! Fuck!”

Till couldn’t help laughing. It dispersed the tension like a shot into a flock of doves.

“It’s not funny. Fuck.”

“Did you break anything?”

“Yes. All of my toes,” hissed Richard and fumbled for orientation in the dark. He hit his face and almost took out Till’s eye. “Shit, sorry.”

Till clumsily reached out for him in return and found Richard’s arm. He ran his hand over it until he found the guitarist’s hand, and held it, trying to help him find his way. He was still cursing.

“I am sure your toes are fine,” said Till amused, and let go when he was sure Richard was laying down safely next to him.

“Fuck you.” Said Richard dryly, and rolled unto the side to face him. Till started to see vague shapes in the dark again and could just make him out as he groped for the blanket. “Gladly.” Blurted Till, without thinking, and clapped his mouth shut. _Shit_. “I’m sorry. I didn’t really mean to say that.”

“Yeah, you did,” said Richard and suddenly he was reaching out to him, hands fumbling in the dark hitting his face and then he was way, way, _way_ too close, one arm thrown over him, entagngling their legs and pressing his face into his chest. Till was surrounded by his smell all of a sudden, that familiar mix of fancy aftershave and cigarette smoke with an added note of coffee and lycopodium that seemed to follow all of them around on tour. Till was overwhelmed with the need to push him away and pull him closer at the same time.

“Scholle!” He protested, halfheartedly, struggling to keep up with his own heartbeat.

“Relax, said Richard. “I’m not gonna hold it against you if you get a boner.” Till felt his back being rubbed comfortingly, but it didn’t do anything to calm him. He was extremely uncomfortable. He felt disgusting next to this freshly cleaned body and the fact that Richard didn’t seem to mind at all didn’t change anything. The skin of his legs seemed to burn impossibly smooth against him, he had no idea where to put his hands and all he really wanted to do was pull him on top of him and if possible never let him go again. There was no winning.

“Scholle, please,” he begged him.

“Can you just stop overthinking it for just one second?” Richard sounded tired and a little sad, but he withdrew his arm and untangled their legs without moving away.

“Because you have never been anxious in your whole damn life.” grumbled Till sarcastically into his hair. This was better.

Richard actually had the nerve to snicker at that. Till wanted to kick him.

“Can you do that thing with my hair again?” Richard asked, before he could further consider resorting to violence. Till felt a small spark of annoyance creep into the warmth in his chest. There was no way he would say no, of course, damn it, _yes_ , he really wanted to, he just wished Richard wouldn’t ask, wouldn’t kick down all these barriers that were so impossible to put back up.

“You’re a child,” he accused him, and went back to running his fingers through his hair, just behind the ears where the skin was so sensitive. The darkness seemed to amplify how nice it felt. He spend some time with it, twirling the short strands of hair and listening to the calming breath of the man that could drive him so insane and wake all his protective instincts at the same time. He ran his fingertips along the tip of Richard’s ear too, very lightly, and felt him shiver underneath the lightweight touch. He moved closer again, sneaky as he was, and this time it was nice. Richard’s cheek pressed against his, so close the corners of their mouth were almost touching was also nice and alot less bothersome than he would have thought. He could feel his breath hitting his face, and skin against skin when that stubborn little fuck entangled their legs again. Then he moved a little and suddenly Richard’s lips were on his and his brain completely stopped working.

It was so chaste, it could hardly even be called a kiss. Richard just moved tentatively against him, exploring how it felt, breathing together with him. It took a really long time and might aswell just have lasted a second. Till felt a tip of a tongue slowly run over his upper lip, not intruding, just a very gentle caress. It was the most sensual thing he had ever felt and something he would remember for the rest of his life. Then Richard sealed it with something that maybe could have been called a kiss but still almost wasn’t, sweet and gentle, and then he nuzzled into him and fell asleep, quick and calmly. _As if nothing had happened._

Till stared into the dark, his arm falling asleep under Richards weight and his nose in his sticky hair. He listened to the half-snoring of the person he loved the most in the world and wondered how in the hell he was ever supposed to come back from that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was weirdly super hard to write. I hope you all aren’t too disappointed. 
> 
> By the way, if anyone is up for it, my tumblr is @struwwelzeter and I’d love to “meet” more of you <3


	6. RZK-I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Till’s wake up call is unpleasant and Richard gets to unveil a passion project.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter is both a bit if a filler to tie two plot parts together as well as pure indulgence.
> 
> The indulgence is my birthday gift to myself and really unnecessary for the story, but I couldn’t resist it. For explanation: I am a massive, massive ESP Guitars brandwhore. Most my favorite guitarists play one, I own an eclipse model myself and I just love everything about that dumb company (before they got sold anyway.) Reesh’s first signature model was released in 2005 if Wiki is to believed so it just coincided with this time line a little too much to ignore he was probably working on it during that time.

Till woke up from his half-sleep from Richard stirring slightly in his arms. His heart wasn’t so much starting to race as still being at it, like during a long distance swim. He was surprised he had managed to sleep at all, it couldn’t have been more than a few hours, and the tiredness from sleeping too lightly and uncomfortable gave him a headache. His neck hurt and the arm under Richard’s weight was definitely numb now, but he didn’t move. He put on his very best sleeping act and hoped for the best. He wanted to give Richard the opportunity to save his face and take off, expecting him to be very embarrassed.

Richard, of course, did what he always seemed to do lately and caught him off guard by simply turning around and pressing his back against his chest, shifting closer again after having moved away from him a bit in his sleep. Till didn’t know if the man had suddenly developed the ability to not give a damn in the world or simply didn’t understand how _serious_ this was. Both scenarios seemed equally unlikely, Richard was the most high strung person he knew, and he liked to think he was smarter than to fall in love with stupid people.

Till rolled his eyes at his own train of thought and gave up on pretending to sleep. The opportunity to shift his arm seemed kind of a now or never thing if he didn’t want to let it become awkward, and maybe his act had never been terribly believable to begin with. He movedhimself so Richard’s head could nestle more comfortably into the crook of his arm, cradling his upper body like they were actually lovers. It was pretty cringey and he had to concentrate on not freaking out, but it allowed him to be both closer and further away. If there was one thing he would _not_ do today, it was to molest Richard with an out of control dick against his ass, no matter how much he claimed he’d be fine with it.

Till pressed his face against Richard’s neck, because he figured he could aswell get a little use out of this fluke, and because the man’s scent and skin and muscular arms under his fingertips were too hard to resist. He was rewarded by Richards hand’s comfortingly running along is forearm and then guitarist fingers entwining with his, soft and strong at the same time.

All of this was like something out of Till’s dreams, the conscious fantasy ones during daytime, where he got lost in scenarios that would never ever happen that way in reality, only in those dreams it felt a bit nicer. He was supposed to be able to enjoy this, wake up happy and rested and because Richard loved him back and they were somewhere at home or some really nice bit of nature and not inside an ugly hotelroom. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He felt dizzy, from lack of sleep or the lack of oxygen inside this mess of pretty black hair he was breathing into, or maybe because he was close to hyperventilating. The rising tide of dread inside him didn’t help, that certainty that all of this would be over very soon, that Richard had just been drunk and not sobered up enough yet, and then he’d have to go back to those horrible daydreams that now seemed plastic and fake in comparison.

Richard squeezed his hand, as if to tell him to calm down, Till thought he was a perceptive little shit, and miraculously they both fell back to sleep.

The second time they woke up it was from Richards phone going off in his jeans pocket, thrown across the floor somewhere. Till woke up first, feeling a lot less lightheaded and considerably more rested and then watched the man in his arms moan with existential dread at having to wake up. He always did that when he really didn’t want to face the day, and Till always thought it was quite endearing.

“Let it ring. It can’t possibly be that important,” Till soothed quietly and was surprised at how hoarse and shaky his voice came out. Richard didn’t reply but relaxed his tensed up body against him, still holding his hand.

Just seconds after his phone stopped ringing, Till’s started to buzz.

Richard cleared his throat with some effort. “It _might_ be important, you know...” Till sighed and with regret let go of his hand to reach for the phone.

He hosted himself up on his right arm and turned the display so Richard could see it was the management calling before he answered the phone. He set it on speaker, so they could both listen to it.

“What!” he barked at the poor person on the other end, entirely annoyed with whatever it was that was interrupting his imperfect daydream.

“I’m so sorry Till,” their tour assistant said, genuinly sounding sorry, “but do you know how I can get ahold of Richard? He’s supposed to be at this meeting in 30 minutes and we haven’t heard from him yet.”

Till looked down at the man in question, who suddenly was very awake, hands flying to his mouth and gesturing wildly and with wide eyes at something Till could only guess at. It would haven been cute, if it had not been so thoroughly _unfortunate_.

“He knows. I think...?” Till raised an eyebrow at him.

Richard nodded frantically.

“He’ll be there.” Till decided, and killed the connection.

“Oh shit.”

Richard sat up so fast, he almost broke Till’s nose, rubbing his face in an obvious effort to be more awake. The next moment he was out of the bed, hurrying to struggle into his jeans, and then to find his wallet that he had thrown around somewhere yesterday.

He took a look at the mirror, self consciously tugging at his hair. “ _Great_. I’ll look like shit.”

Till disagreed with that fullheartedly, but the sudden absence of that warm body next to him already settled into him with an empty feeling sort of heaviness. It had happened so fast. _Was it really supposed to end that fast?_

“I’m sure whoever it is can wait for your hair,” he said, trying to keep his composure while feeling exposed and vulnerable sitting up in this empty bed and watching Richard tie his shoes. If it had to end, could it end completely, so he could be alone and in private with his misery?

“No,” the guitarist said, seeming oblivious to his torment. “It’s ESP.”

“Oh.” Said Till, and it was at least a little bit of a relief that he wasn’t being dumped for any old management meeting. The first time ESP had contacted them to ask Richard for a signature model, the man had jumped around the rehearsal room like a little kid on Christmas, babbling on and on about it until Olli had demonstratively packed up his bass and Paul had looked ready to murder him. It was a boy’s dream coming true.

Months later, and Richard had since been in non stop contact with the company, trying to design a guitar that was both completely _his_ as well as able to be produced in series. Every time he got a new prototype he vanished from the face of the planet for a few days to then emerge being so chipper with new ideas it made Paul grind his teeth and everyone else at least somewhat exasperated. Till suspected the people that actually had to build the damn things regretted ever asking for it at this point, too. _Which they deserved_ , for ruining this morning.

Till settled back down between the sheets, wrapping himself tightly into the duvet in an attempt to feel warmer again. The smell of Rich’s aftershave still lingered and it didn’t help. The depression that had been inevitable from the get go already engulfed him like cold water. He remembered swimming in the baltic sea as a teenager before neoprene suits had become available, and they had run books on who could go into the water the furthest into autumn. That feeling of starting to become weightless when you stopped feeling your body parts, it was almost the same.

At the door, Richard stopped to look back at him, hand already on the handle. “I’ll see you later... ok?” He asked, with an expression that Till couldn’t quite read but at least interpreted as being friendly. He could just nod, the image in front of him already starting to swim. 

——-

_Later_ turned out to be just about two hours later, after both Paul and Schneider had bombarded everyone with text messaging, insisting that it was time for a band breakfast. Till really didn’t feel up for it, his skeleton seemed to weigh at least ten tonnes and the prospect of talking to anyone was an entirely different sort of beast. But, he reasoned with himself, he might aswell get used to pretending to be functioning now since he had to do it for the foreseeable future anyway, and then proceeded with hating himself a little more for being so full of self pity.

He found his band in a private room the hotel had made available for them, already eating. The smell of food made him feel sick, but he still plopped down next to Flake, mechanically reaching for the coffee. He hoped nobody would actually ask him anything.

“Where’s Scholle?” enquired Paul with his mouth full.

“Meeting ESP,” answered Till curtly, hoping his tone would make it clear he didn’t want to talk about it. He had no luck, of course.

Schneider and Paul groaned in unison. “He’s not gonna shut up about it for the entire day!!” Paul complained.

“Meeting who?” asked Flake.

“The guitar people. The ones that are building his own guitar?” Olli explained to him, and reached for the bread.

“Oh.” Said Flake, appearantly remembering now. “I don’t understand what they could possible build that hasn’t been build before. It seems kind of unnecessary. It is nice he can choose the colour tho.” 

“It’s so his head can grow a little bigger!” proclaimed Paul, while dismemebering a sandwich and putting it back together in a fashion he seemed to deem superior. “That is literally the only reason to do it. Also, nobody actually needs that second EMG. I mean, I _guess_ he does, but nobody _should_ need that.”

“I don’t know what that means,” said Flake but didn’t seem to be particularly curious either.

“It means Paul disapproves of Richard’s choice of pick ups,” answered Olli, “and I disagree, that’s half of our sound build right there.”

“I don’t disapprove, _per se_ ,” said Paul. “I just want to diss it a bit out of principle.”

“I wonder if he goes to sleep with it,” contemplated Schneider, peeling his egg. “He seems to get awfully attached everytime he gets a new prototype.”

“Oh, he so is!” Paul exclaimed, sounding excited. “He’s dry humping it too. I guess that’s the only reason he hasn’t asked them to print his face on it yet.” Schneider giggled.

“Leave him be,” Till finally snapped. “He deserves it.”

There was a brief moment of silence during which everybody stared at him and Till wanted to sink into the floor. Then Paul raised his hands in apology. “Whoa. Ok there, lover. I promise to only say half of that to his face.”

Till didn’t reply, but burned his tongue on his coffee. It was a welcome distraction from the pain literally everywhere else and Schneider came to his rescue by starting a conversation about some movie he really didn’t care about at all right now.

When Richard finally joined them, he entered ed the room dressed in black and carrying a guitarcase. He had somehow managed to fix his hair after all, and when they turned around to greet him, his face lit up with what Till secretly called his lightbulb smile. It always started small, like he was a little ashamed of being this happy about something, and then slowly overtook everything until he was grinning widely, all teeth and skin crinkling around his eyes and everything.

“It’s done!” He proclaimed, setting down the case gently and claiming the last chair between Schneider and Till. “Going into production next month.”

“Wait, what. Done, like, _done_ done?!” asked Chrisoph, sounding slightly unbelieving. “Yep.” Richard looked very smug as he too reached for the coffee first. “It’s not gonna get better than it is now.” Now they all stared at _him_.

“Oh, come on.” Schneider crumbled first. “You know you want to show us.”

Richard grinned, chewed on his croissant some more as if to prove he had all the time in the world, wiped his hands on his jeans and then got up to open the case on the floor with a theatrical wave of his arm.

Inside glittered a silver and chrome guitar, with a sweeping pick guard and the outline of a heavy beamed cross on the body. The mother of pearl inlays on the fretboard had the same shape. Despite himself, Till had to smile. It was a good looking guitar, and unexpected. _Oh Richard, you and your gestures._

“It looks like a _Rammstein_ guitar more than anything,” Paul said after a moment, sounding irritated. Scholle crossed his arms defensively.

“Whu.. yeah?! That was the point, dumbass. What did you think it would look like?” 

“Well, you know. More black and RZK written everywhere.”

“Paul thought you’d print your face on it,” Till revealed and watched Paul turn red with satisfaction.

Richard glowered at his fellow guitarist.

“You do know this is a success for all of us, right? They didn’t offer it to me because I’m _me_ , they offered it to me because being in _this band_ is supposed to be fucking cool. If you’d spend more than two seconds caring about what you play on, you’d get a deal too.”

“Ok fine!” Paul threw up his hands. “I get it. It’s pretty cool.”

Richard grinned. “You can try it, you know.” 

Paul struggled with himself visibly, but then had to give up.

“Oh for fucks sake. Just give it to me.”

They all watched Paul examine the guitar, turning it, tuning it, and then sceptically playing a few riffs on it.

“So?” Schneider asked. “What is it like?”

“It’s neck heavy,” said Paul.

Richard gave him a side eyed look but continued to eat his breakfest. “ _You_ are neck heavy,” he replied, patient annoyance in his voice. Till was a bit surprised at how calmly he took the criticism, but then realised it was because Paul was so obviously bullshitting and because Richard was _sure_ of this. He’d worked hard and this was the best he had come up with and that was that. A hot wave of adoration and possessive pride filled him. He was in _alot_ more trouble than he had thought.

Paul continued to mess around with the guitar, playing some riffs with the strings slapping against the wood being the main sound without an amp. Till didn’t exactly understand how you could really judge the thing without one, but both his guitarists had assured him you could judge just fine for a start on numerous occasions.

“I don’t know, Scholle, the knobs seem quite small, no?” was another attempt of Paul to rile up his colleage. Richard snipped a breadcrumb at him. “I had to accommodate your size somehow,” he claimed dryly. Everyone laughed at that, even Paul, and because it was such a good moment Till found the courage somewhere to reach over and quickly squeezed Richard’s knee under the table.

When the man looked up at him and squeezed him back that lightbulb smile was his alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone wants to know which exact guitar this is, here are pictures:
> 
> https://en.m.audiofanzine.com/misc-shape-guitar/esp/rzk-1-platinum/
> 
> I don’t know how familiar you all are with the concept of signature guitars so if anyone has any questions I’m happy to try and answer them either here in the comments or on my tumblr, it’s @struwwelzeter


	7. Particles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard needs to sort through his relationship with Till in the middle of touring chaos. It’s not easy.

It was truly astonishing, Richard thought, how you could re-learn and re-learn lessons you thought you had already learned a good dozen of times. For exemple, he had thought he had already understood everything there was to understand about touring. He had been very wrong.

The way this usually worked was that you were thrown into a space with an alternative reality and time line to the rest of the world, and then you had to deal with connecting those spaces.

You could either do that by connecting only the start and the finish: Jump on to the circus after saying goodbye in the beginning and then jump off when it was done and going back into a reality that you used to know, but where people now had changed dynamics, relationships and even their names. The best outcome in that scenario that you could hope for was that noone would forget you, and your people tried to reintegrate you as if you were some sort of veteran that needed to be smothered with gentle tolerance and understanding until things like the need to buy trash bags and sticking to a 24 hour day became comprehensible again. The worst ... was an overdose inside some hotel room you accidentally forgot to leave. 

Another option was to try and jump on the wagon and still try to stay tethered to that other world. This was preferable, because it significantly lowered the chances of ending up as the post-traumatic-stress-injury of some poor hotel employee, the problem was that it was also significantly more tedious.

If, say, you had a significant other at home, you needed to refresh that tether with a regularity of a good 24 to 48 hour rhythm to keep it from snapping. If you were really smart, you could use the timezone hopping and unknown places you went to as an excuse for not calling (no cellphone reception was a good classic), and if the person on the other end was gullible enough, you could go from 48 up to 72 hours - on occasion. There was an additional complication with that, as you had to still figure out how to look in the mirror and be ok with seeing a lying, evasive asshole, but if you found a nice balance of all of those things and added good food, there was a realistic chance of not going insane. 

Now, Richard found out that it was perfectly possible for both worlds to exist simultaneously, in the same room, _all the time_ , and he needed to figure out how to connect them, starting from scratch.

Being on tour meant becoming a timeless, rootless bag of bones who’s job it was to take flight between flames and sound and ecstasy and not get hurt too much while landing. Then, it was asked to evolve into a higher form of robot. It was your job to sleep if you could, show up on time, fulfill all the obligations to fans, sponsors and business people in between, and then it was time to climb up into another sphere of existence again for a 100 minutes and nail another landing.

Belonging to the rest of the world required something else. Figuring out relationships and sexual desires that went beyond anything a quick fuck with a groupie could provide, required headspace that just wasn’t available. Analyzing your place in relation to the people closest to you with any kind of psychological depth was a thing entirely incompatible with touring.

Keeping a tether tight for 10 minutes every 48 hrs to connect to the real world was doable.

Being a decent friend who acted responsible towards the feelings of the person he had just kissed for no other reason than really, _really_ wanting to, was not. There was just no room, no space for it. Unfortunately lying to your estranged partner at home about a bad connection in order to keep everything from falling apart was entirely different than seeing your best friend in the world slip into their own kind of darkness.

Richard watched Till retracting from them a little more each day. It wasn’t bad, not really. Till showed up and did the job. Till came off stage, ecstatic and grinning like the rest of them. Till threw a big party for the support band and charmed hardened road professionals with his generosity, idiotic humor and his complete lack of regard for any sort of social norm or boundary.

But Till also stared blindly out the plane window for an eight hour flight, wrote endless lines of text he wouldn’t let anyone see (and then threw away) and tried to swim his 4 x 500 meters in even the smallest of hotel pools each day with a ferocity that looked a little manic.

The only good thing was that Till understood why Richard couldn’t talk to him right now, why there was _no_ time, why he was just too tired today, and why he _just couldnt deal with this right now_ , because he went theough the same circus shitshow at the same time.

They were like two weird physical particles, swimming together in two realities at the same time. Richard thought that had immense romantic potential - with the small hindrance of the second particle being a endlessly pessimistic grump who wouldn’t recognise luck if it punched him in the face.

Richard decided to try anyway.

He managed to corner Till alone on the plastic chairs at some airport gate after trying an entire day to catch him away from everyone else. He was listening to music, sitting a bit away from the rest of them and looked utterly exhausted.

They were on a connecting flight to who knew where, and their second plane was severely late, so they had been waiting for four hours already. Richard didn’t know what time it was in this timezone, but in _his_ timezone, a good night’s sleep was overdue. Schneider slept, stretched out over several seats in a position that couldn’t possibly be good for him. Flake, Olli and Paul played cards, halfway descending into the kind of silliness that only sleep deprivation could create.

Richard went to buy coffee. He fought with the self serving machine for a couple of minutes, ready to kick the damn thing down, until he finally managed to buy two flimsy plastic cups full of brown stuff.

Trying to gather the last bits of energy and courage he could find, he took a deep breath and went to sit down with his singer. Till stirred and took off his headphones, turning to him. He smiled a little forced but didn’t seem to mind him being there. That was a good start, Richard thought, and held out the second coffee to him.

“It tastes like piss, but it’s warm and has coffeine.”

Till looked a little surprised but then smiled for real and took the cup from him, his fingers brushing his wrist. 

“Thank you,” he said and then grimaced upon tasting the coffee. He didn’t complain however and just sank bank into his chair.

Richard did the same, and after a moment of companionable coffee sipping (and hating it), he nudged Till’s leg with his knee.

“Are you okay?”

Till looked over at him. He started nodding and then changed it into shaking his head and then shrugged and it turned into an entirely unsure gesture that was so endearing Richard felt a surge of protectiveness for him.

“We’ll talk soon. Ok?”

Till dropped his gaze at that and turned his head away, but nodded. That was all Richard could hope for, he knew, and for now that was just as well. He was so tired, his brain was working in slow motion, and all the contemplating of the last hour or so had already been exhausting enough. He let himself sink deeper into the uncomfortable plastic chair and, to his own surprise, fell asleep.

—-

  
The opportunity to talk came a few days later, when they finally, _finally_ had two off days in which they didn’t have to travel. They were in spain, the weather was nice, and Richard woke up early - a novelty. He felt untypical refreshed and clear headed and since he assumed everyone else was still asleep, he took the time to just play guitar for once. He felt like it was ages since he had last been alone, and an hour of only hearing sounds he produced himself was calming his racing mind. It was a good morning, all things considered.

He had just spread his laptop, external sound card and cables all over the hotelbed to try and record some demos, when he was interrupted by a light knock on the door.

Till stood in front of him, dressed in black jeans and a soft grey shirt. He was barefoot, hands in his pockets, and hair still wet from a shower. It fell forward into his face and his slightly tucked chin gave the impression that he was looking up at Richard despite being taller. He looked less guarded than usually. He looked _good_. “Hey,” he said, nothing else.

Richard stepped aside to let him in. There was that feeling in his stomach suddenly, the one that romantics called butterflies and he himself usually referred to as a plague of little shits. Treacherous little beasts, they were, but they had their moments. Right now, they made him feel pretty excited.

“Hey. I thought you’d not join the land of the living before afternoon,” he slightly teased him, as Till made his way over to the bed to sit down on it. Till, Paul and Schneider had overdone it a little bit at their private aftershowparty last night.

Till grimaced. “I’ve felt better,” he admitted. “But worse, too.” They grinned at each other, at shared memories of outrageous parties and even more outrageous hangovers. _The shit we have seen together ..._

Till had sat down against the headboard of the bead, legs stretched out in front of him. Richard observed him, still a little hung up on how good he looked. It wasn’t something he had spend a huge amount thinking about, but now he wanted to.

He had always thought him attractive. Till was the kind of man other men wanted to be like, and noone in the band had ever been immune to that. When they had all first gotten together, Till had been the ex-sportsstar who could carry an amp with one hand and girls over any threshold. His rugged charm added to the masculine appeal and a number of promo shoots later Richard still thought he looked the best in the band. But all that wasn’t quite _it_. What got to him now was the juxtaposition of brute strength and the vulnerability in those sea foam eyes. There was something shy in the way he held his body, that couldn’t cover up the physical power but made it unthreatening.

Richard _ached_ for him physically, because his physicality felt like the safest place in the world. He wanted to touch him, for the same reason he wanted to touch sun warmed rocks on a summer’s night.

Richard climbed on the bed, pushing the mess of cables and his guitar away slightly and sat crosslegged, facing Till. He was nervous now.

“Anything good?” asked Till, gesturing at his make-do field studio mess, a tiny smile on his lips.

“I’ll let you be the judge of that, once I actually managed to record anything.” 

“You can’t just play it to me?”

Richard squirmed. Did he have anything good enough? He didn’t think so.

“No,” he decided. “Not yet.”

Till didn’t push him. He never did, and it was for that reason Richard liked to bring his ideas to him first. It was a judgement free zone, always. Even when Till didn’t like something, he never failed to make his music feel welcome.

Instead, the big man nibbled on his cuticles now, staring into space, and Richard realized that if he wanted this to go anywhere, he had to do it himself.

“You want to talk?”

Till half-nodded, looking down.

“Yeah ... but”, he nervously scratched his arm, “I don’t really know what to say.”

_You and me both_ , Richard thought, but he didn’t give up.

“Is there anything you want to ask me?” he tried.

Till struggled with that for a moment but then said quitely: “I want to know why you kissed me.”

Richard had been prepared for that, and he knew what he wanted to reply, but it was still hard. He wasn’t the _words_ guy between the two of them. Expressing himself with a melody was easy. This on the other hand had a million pitfalls where he could fail to be understood.

“Because I wanted to.” 

That was the truth. 

“And,” he added, holding up a hand when he saw Till’s brows knit together, “I know that doesn’t sound like a very good reason, but it wasn’t some spur of the moment thing. I’ve wanted to since that night in Berlin, and if you must know, I _still_ want to. I like this. I like being with you. You’re my best friend, and I miss your company. I hated it when you avoided me, by the way, that really sucked.”

Till listened to him carefully, head bowed. His hands were folded in his lap now, and he seemed tense, but when Richard stopped talking he made no sign of a response. He started to feel like he was doing a terrible job at this.

“Look,” he said, nudging Till’s leg a little with his foot in a desperate effort to establish some sort of connection. “I know this is different and weird, but I really did like kissing you. I liked waking up with you like that. You’re my best friend and being around you feels great. I didn’t mind blowing of that woman the other night either, I get a lot more out of spending time with you and not hurting you than a quick fuck. I know I shouldn’t subject you to some sort of selfish experiment, but I think I want to know what this could be. I’m starting to wonder if I haven’t looked for something all these years that was right in front of me.”

Till still listened carefully, now chewing his lips. Richard really didn’t know what else to say, and waited. It seemed to take forever, but then finally he started speaking.

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” he said in a quiet, hoarse voice. Till looked very sad. “It always sounds like a good idea, everyone wants to be with their best friend. But there’s more to it than it theoretically being easy. It’s not just being comfortable. It’s a bit of fire too. Desire and lust for one thing, but I think something else too. And a little kiss and cuddling and liking it isn’t that.”

“I know that,” said Richard, uncomfortably. “But it’s not always supposed to be this horrible struggle either. Everyone says so. It’s supposed to be easy, when it’s real.”

Till nodded his head, very slowly. “Maybe,” he said, in a tone that let Richard know he just said it for the sake of the argument and not because he believed him. “But,” he continued, “do you understand how I feel about you? I love to just be with you. I love to wake up with you. But I also do desire you. I lust for you. Hell, I’ve payed for sex with men so I could close my eyes and think about you. You haven’t even thought about being with a guy before Berlin.”

Richard felt very warm, and a little shocked at that last bit of revelation, but as always when he felt he wasn’t being taken serious he mainly felt irritated.

“Well, that just means I never had the opportunity to think that I _do_ want to be with a man either,” he snapped.

“That’s just semantics.”

Richard threw up his hands. He hated this. He hated feeling like his emotions were unreal and invisible, he hated when he couldn’t express them in a way that were relatable. _He knew what he felt._ He didn’t need anyone to know it for him, not even Till.

“You know what, fine. Yes, I’ve never thought about it. Don’t you think that’s just a little bit confusing for me? I just figure sex is just a transaction of things that feel good. I don’t see why my dick in your ass wouldn’t feel good. And if you’re not into that, I hear my G-spot’s up there so how bad can it really be.”

He finally got Till to look up at him with that. They stared at each other, hard, and Richard’s entire inside was a mess of boiling anger and another sort of heat that threatened to overwhelm him. He crossed his arms protectively and watched Till’s adam’s apple jump when be swallowed.

“That’s just theoretical,” said Till weakly.

“Yeah? Try me!” Richard hissed, before he could really think about what he was saying. The heat concoction in his stomach had picked up a few more degrees.

Till did. He stared at him for maybe two seconds longer before he moved, and then he was quick about it. He pushed Richard on his back, wrists pinned above his head, and then his entire weight was pushing him into the bed. Richard just had the time to realise that Till really was trying to prove some point here, tried to disgust him and make him uncomfortable, before he felt the man’s erection burn against him through his sweatpants. The undeniable, physical proof that he was _wanted_ stopped his brain and then Till’s mouth was on his, harsh and unyielding and almost painful.

Richard kissed him back. There wasn’t even the slightest hesitation. What perhaps was meant to be an intrusion, was welcomed. Till tried to pry open his mouth with his tongue but there was no resistance. The heat in Richards stomach turned into greed, greed to be _closer, closer, closer_ until the only thing that would fit between them was the knowledge that they would be fine. 

There was nothing gentle about it. Till took revenge on him, for a decade of wanting to do this and not being able to, and Richard let him. He pulled one arm away from Till’s grip, his struggle stopping the attack on his lips for the tiniest of moments. Then he ran his hand up Till’s back, sneaking under his shirt and feeling for that firm, silky skin. He pressed his hips up against the weight on him, informing his attacker _exactly_ how much _theory_ was involved in this, and Till gasped into his mouth and clung to him.

Till’s hand that a moment ago had still pinned Richard’s arm cupped his face, and the gentle stroke of his thumb finally cooled down some of the burning agony. Richard hooked his legs around Till’s and struggled to roll them around, and then he was sitting on top of him, looking down on his dazed, confused face.

“ _That_ didn’t turn out the way you planned, did it,” he bit out, fueled by the last sparks of anger. Till threw his arm over his face, unable to be scrutinized and looked at as ever, hiding from him. He was breathing heavily, lips trembling a little. His other hand was still on Richard’s hip, gripping him tightly.

“No,” he whispered, “no, it didn’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the continued support for this story. I hope this is what you came here for. I’m genuinely sorry for the cliffhanger, but it made perfect sense to slice it up that way. 
> 
> The development with COVID-19 is getting a bit more chaotic each day here in germany so I don’t know how well I can update in the upcoming time. Maybe it will be less, maybe more because I need the escape. I’m in any case so glad I this fandom to get me through this. Love to you all and stay safe and healthy.


	8. Thread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Till and Richard talk.

Till was buried under Richards weight, heart beating out of his chest. He couldn’t look at him. His hand had landed on his hip somehow, right at the waistband of Richards’s sweatpants. His thumb was on naked satin skin, revealed under the black tanktop, and if he moved it, he would lose himself. Not just a little, not just going crazy for a minute. He was convinced, if he moved his hand now in any way, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from doing whatever Richard would allow him to do, and judging from just a second ago, that was a lot. And if he let that happen, he would cross a line in a way he would never want to cross it. Not like _this_ , tainted by anger and hurt. 

He hadn’t been joking earlier. He’d typecast the men he’d been with over the years, sexworkers or otherwise, for the same type over and over again during the past years. Just a bit smaller than him, well groomed, sulky demeanor. Being with the actual man was different than he had expected or dared dream about. Richard was stronger than most of them. Till was reminded that he might fantasize about protecting him and holding him close as if he was as fragile as his moods could be, but the man was a muscular 38 year old who powered through a 100 min intense concert on a regular basis, same as him. He wasn’t as big as him, but he wasn’t small either. He’d put up a fight, too. He could still feel the heat from where Rich’s arms had enveloped him when he had been put on his back. He could still feel that strength on top of him now, the death grip of a wrestlers legs around him. Richard might have left all of that long in the past, but the physical energy of someone who once had been completely unafraid to dive head first into street fights was still there, hidden between layers of fragility and kindness. Till was in complete and utter awe of him and ashamed of the way he had jumped him. Richard was impulsive but he wasn’t an impulsive idiot. He’d known what he wanted. Which was a problem, because he had no idea what to do with that.

One thing he knew, was that with every bit they got closer like this, letting Scholle go was harder. Keeping his hands off him was harder. If he let himself fall into this, if he allowed this to go on and Richard left him after that ... he could imagine the darkness that followed after that and it had no end. It was an endless abyss to him. It would be like a toss into deep space without the fast relief of death.

And he couldn’t imagine him staying. Richard had never stayed with anyone that he was supposed to stay with. The closest to staying was the way he was with his kids, present but not always there, guardian and elusive hero. Richard would run from everything, because he was too impatient, too easily bored, and too intense to just find calm anywhere. He’d never stay with someone as same-samey as him.

They were good friends, because they understood each other. Till understood the ferocious anger that Rich sometimes felt, anger at the world and how it hurt good people and advanced bad ones. He understood his endless need to rebel against the mundane, against the boredom of reality. And Richard ... Richard was the only person he had ever met that just seemed to take him in a stride. 

When Till’s brain did that thing where he could just crawl into darkness and dig around in it, Richard seemed to trust him to be able to do it. He didn’t even blink at it, most of the time. The most extreme reaction would be a _I can’t follow you, but I hope I’ll see you later_. Richard worried about him, but he didn’t _worry_ about him, not in that weird way other people did, where Till always felt like he was stared at. It was almost as if everything that made people wary of Till didn’t even register with him.

But no matter how deep and instinctual their friendship ran, Till felt abandoned by him sometimes. He felt like he needed Richard, needed that small connection to a place where he felt completely normal. He knew he could be so far removed from everybody else’s reality, it was like he was about to vanish sometimes. Richards uncomplicated acceptance made him feel a lot less freakish. Sometimes it made him feel freakish so little, he actually started to enjoy looking from the outside in.

Richard on the other hand always seemed to be lonely inherently, but never like he actually truly needed anyone specifically. Richards loneliness was a default, and that meant no one ever seemed to make a dent into it. Richard just wanted to be loved. It didn’t matter by whom. And Till hated how little needed he felt. Richard brought out a needy clinginess in himself that he hated and that scared him.

He felt the tears come, and there wasn’t any resistance in him to fight against that too now. He felt Richard move on top of him, and he knew what was coming. He melted away under the small kisses planted on his cheeks and the dexterous fingers stroking his hair. _My Scholle_. How caring he could be. How little he understood.

Richard moved over to the side, dragging him along a little until they were facing each other. He held him silently, with Till pressing his face into his chest and waited until the tears silently ran out. Only then did he moved to be able to look at him.

  
“Why is this so horrible?” he asked, shyly.

“I think,” Till answered hoarsely, “if I let this happen we will lose each other completely.” He couldn’t meet Richard’s eyes, so he just stared concentratedly on the way his black top met his neck.

“You will never lose me,” Richard said with utmost conviction.

“You never stay with anyone.”

Richard reached out and moved a strand of hair out of his face. “I haven’t gotten bored of you in 15 years. That’s already longer than anyone else.”

Till didn’t try to point out that this would be different.

“If it doesn’t work out,” Richard continued after a moment of pause, “it will be because we’re not compatible in a way we can’t think of right now. That doesn’t erase all the years we spend together. You will never lose me. And I know I will never lose you.”

“You’ll get bored of me, just like of everyone else. I’m... I can’t go through that.” Till still stared at the cut out of Richard’s top. There was half a centimeter of lose thread poking out of it. His body felt strange, suspended in time. Having this conversation was very unrealistic.

“I don’t know how to convince you,” Richard said quietly. “I don’t get bored of people. I just get too much for them. Or too little. Or both at the same time.”

“I don’t understand what that means,” Till admitted, struck by how calm and thoughtful that had sounded.

“It means, that usually when people fall for me, they only do it for some little part of me. And then they find out a lot more about me, and they don’t like it. They fall in love with a rockstar and don’t expect to get someone with massive self esteem issues and then they want me to be better than I am. And at the same they ask me to be less - less away, less in the studio, less involved...” he sounded tired. “I never really left anyone. They would have all left me, I just left before they could do it first.”

Till reached out and finally plucked away that stupid thread on Richards shirt. His finger tips brushed his skin. Some of that sounded true ... and yet ....

“So why do you think it could be different with me.”

“You’re the only person that has ever been a constant in my life, and if you love me after all that shit 3 years ago that seems like a pretty safe bet.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“I was a cocaine addict and almost destroyed our band. It was exactly that bad.”

Till swallowed. He tried to never think of that. It was better now. He didn’t need to be afraid of that phone call anymore. Richard was _fine_. There were no traces of nosebleeds anymore in the sink. His hands were steady. He didn’t explode at the tiniest bit of criticism. He was fine. _He was fine._

“I don’t want to be your last resort,” Till tried again.

Richard reached out again to stroke his hair.

“I understand why you feel that way. But you’re not my last resort.”

Of course he wasn’t. Scholle could have anyone he ever wanted.

“You are scared and I understand that,” Richard continued. “You are scared because you dreamed your whole life of this big love that you want to have, and you somehow got it into your head that you will only have it to lose it, so now when it is in front of you, you are too scared to take it because you want to avoid the hurt. You know what? Just because you got that into your head doesn’t mean it will happen that way.”

Till didn’t know what to answer. It felt like Richard would take anything he would say and twist it around into something else, something that sounded logical but wasn’t true, just to get his way. He thought it was a little arrogant. He wasn’t afraid of a hypothetical hurt that could potentially suck a little, he was afraid of something that would happen for certain and that would completely derail him.

“That sounds like some of your therapy shit,” he grumbled under his breath.

Richard withdrew his hand from his head.

“Anything you want to say to me about that?” He sounded calm, but Till immediately sensed the hurt beneath the words. He’d messed up.

“No. I’m sorry. Forget what I said.”

Richard sighed, and moved, sitting back up with his back against the headboard, hand’s folded in his lap.

“It really did help me. You know?”

Till felt so tired. He rubbed his face.

“Yeah. Ok,” said. He couldn’t fight about this.

“So if you have a problem with that, I’d really appreciate it if you told me.” Richard sounded defensive, but he was still sincere. Till sighed and sat up too, mirroring Richards position.

“It’s just ... it feels like it happens in a vacuum. Like, I get it. It’s supposed to help you figure out what you really need and where your boundaries are and all that. But in a therapy setting it’s just about one person, and in real life it’s not about the needs of one person, it’s about many, and it never takes into account how what you call needs and boundaries affects someone else.”

“Till, everything I did in therapy was literally about me giving space to others and not be a selfish asshole that wants to control everything.”

“Ok.” Till said simply, too exhausted to argue. It didn’t help.

“Then what is your problem?!”

“God damn it, Rich. You moved 6300 kilometers away without once looking back. That’s my problem,” Till snapped. “Because apparently, abandoning your friends is the only way to give them _space_.” He made airquotes around the word space. “I needed you. I wasn’t even the only one. There should have been another way than for you to just up and leave. I really, really needed you, fuck.”

Richard pressed his lips together. He had sunken in on himself, head bowed, looking like a punished boy. Till hated himself for yelling at him that way. _Why am I this awful?_

When he Richard spoke again, he had that frozen calmness about him he always had when he was really, seriously disappointed. It filled Till with cold dread. He couldn’t remember it ever being directed at him before.

“You know, I don’t know what you expected from me. You never told me that. You just stopped talking to me. I can’t read your mind. I thought you were just worried about the band. How am I supposed to know that you need me if you don’t tell me? Why are you, supposedly, in love with me for years and never tell me? When did you stop talking to me?”

Till had absolutely no answer for that, so he was looking for another way out of this.

“What difference would it make. If I told you, would you come back for me?”

Richard closed his eyes. “That’s not fair,” he said, sounding pained.

“See,” said Till, feeling the smallest bit of bitter satisfaction at being right. “That’s already one reason why it would never work.”

Richards eyes snapped open and he turned his body, forcing Till to finally really look at him again. He was angry now. Not the red hot anger as before, but the real kind, the kind that could destroy something. “That is bullshit. I don’t think there is a rule book that says we have to be at the same place all of the time. And even if there was, since when do _you_ of all people follow a rule book?! Would _you_ come to New York for _me_?”

When Till didn’t answer, Richard slumped back into leaning against the headboard. He turned his face away and stared out the window into the sun. “You are really saying no to this, aren’t you,” he resigned.

“I just don’t think it would work” Till replied, voice breaking.

Richard nodded. He leaned over to grab his guitar and his studio headphones.

“Then I think I’d like to be alone for a bit now.”

“Scholle...”

He shook his head. “You really only love me theoretically too. You can’t actually bear the reality of who I am or what I really need either. You’re a lot more than everybody else than I thought.”

Till was numb. He climbed out of Richards bed automatically, as if he were a string puppet moved by someone else. At the door he looked back, watching the man sitting on the bed as from a 100 meters away. He was bend over his guitar, the muscles moving under his skin already to the metallic sounds of an un-amped guitar. He could hear how loud it must be for Richard instead, through the noise that escaped his headphones. Stormy melodies from very far away. He was beautiful.

Till walked down the hallway to his room as if in a bad dream. His body felt weightless. What the hell had just happened? Had he really just turned down the love of his life? He rememberd the words coming out of his mouth. He knew he had done it. He didn’t feel like he did. _Because who would do something like that?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I broke my own heart with this chapter. I am sorry. I mean, it was always meant to be depressing, but I think the state of the world right now has made it a bit more depressing than planned. Since we need some good news: it will get better.
> 
> Sorry, sorry.


	9. 8 Minutes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A devastated Richard is trying to hold it together.

It took a few days to really sink in, and then it only went downhill from there. At first, Richard thought they would fix it the next day. But the next day, he didn’t even _see_ Till. He locked himself up and refused any sort of contact, apparently. When he asked Olli, the lanky man just shrugged and said “one of his moods, probably.” Only Richard knew it wasn’t.

The day after that was a travel day. Till came to the shuttle at the last moment, eyes hidden behind sunglasses and clung to Flake like a dog, avoiding Richard as best as he could. He kind of saw the point in not trying to fix the absolute worst tear in their friendship to date between waiting for flights, security and airport beers and left him alone.

But when in the following days, Till shut him down three consecutive times with a “not _now_ , Richard” at times that seemed totally suitable for at least a small conversation, Richard got to know the true impact of a Lindemann shut down. 

He had seen it before, of course. He just never thought it could happen to _him_.

Till was a pretty easy going guy. He forgave almost everything, seemed to get along with everybody, and was genuinely tolerant towards an endless variety of human failure. But when he decided that he needed a break from someone, he could draw up a drawbridge and became impenetrable. He just shut people out. He’d done it to a few record company people and a few ex-girlfriends. He’d done it with a few ass-lickers trying to take advantage of the band in their early days. He’d done it to very few friends, and each time it was a 100% deserved and a 100% devastating. He just stopped responding. Even three years ago it hadn’t be like this. Till hadn’t talked to him for a while, but he had at least informed him that he wouldn’t. And then he had just suddenly stood on his front porch again. “Do you need help packing anything?”

Now, Richard felt like he walked head first into a concrete wall. He thought he didn’t deserve it, he was panicking it would be forever, and he didn’t know how to fix anything with someone that refused any attempt at fixing it. 

The first emotion he really felt was betrayal. The realisation that there had been something standing between them for several years and he never knew was devastating. He had felt so safe. He had blindly trusted Till to have his back in whatever he did, and now it turned out the man hated what he had done. Oh, he had still supported him, looking after things and helping him move, but he had _thought badly_ of him. Without saying a word. Till had not trusted him with his love either. At least it was clear why now: Because he wanted him to be someone he couldn’t be, some idealized version of himself that would never truly be real. At least Till had the sense to know that too and to not pursue anything. It just made him wonder what else was kept from him. What other resentments there were that he would never learn about. All that, from the one person he thought was honest with him.

The sense of betrayal made him walk on eggshells. He noticed how he started to question everything anybody said to him. Nothing seemed believable. The paranoia sat in his stomach somewhere, and when it threatened to start to control him, he called his therapist. “Always think of how else a person’s words could be interpreted. What else could what they say mean?” was the advice he expected and found hard to follow. “Rely on what you know to be true.” There wasn’t much.

Just six thin pieces of steel under his fingers now.

After that came the guilt. He should have noticed. He should have broken the news more gently. He should have pressed Till more when he had been upset. He should have been more careful. _He should have noticed._ He should have, he should have, he should have.

He _shouldn’t_ have taken him for granted this much.

Richard hadn’t anticipated the possibility of being rejected. He had felt so secure in Till’s love, it had not really occured to him that it could happen. With that came the realisation that he had never felt secure about anybody’s love for him before. The small, still sane, part of him argued that with that being the case, it was only natural he hadn’t recognized it for what it was. How do you see love, if you don’t know it? The rest of him just drowned in self-loathing.

It only dawned on him now, when he couldn’t speak to Till, how much he had relied on him. He’d relied on being able to call, anytime. He had relied on Till speaking up on his behalf during band discussions. He had relied on him to just always sort of _be there_. To help him hold a piece of luggage when he had his hands full. To stop with him when he had to tie his shoe. To actually pay attention to the day-sheet and telling him when he needed to be at the venue. To translate the menu in whatever language it was this time. To look over at him, after any and all pyro stunts, checking if he was still be there. That, he still did at least. But maybe that was just duty.

Richard didn’t think he had ever given him anything in return. Till was probably better off without him to look after. He himself had ruined this, by taking it for granted and never checking if maybe Till had any needs too. And with that realization the only thing left was complete loneliness.

It was so all consuming, it made his bones ache. The darkness was pierced only by those brief, sharpened moments of ecstasy when he stood on stage, bathing in the applause and the sound and the heat. He threw himself into it, counting the minutes between the concerts, and when they were over he staggered off the tage desorientated and struggling not to crash too hard.

There wasn’t a single person trying to catch him anymore, it seemed. He didn’t remember when he had the last conversation with any of his bandmates. Everybody just seemed to party, or fight the jet lag, or be on the phone with someone, and there was just no space for him anywhere. Till always seemed to be surrounded with an entire entourage of people Richard didn’t know, or like, or understood, not that it would have made any difference. Schneider and Paul seemed inseparable, with their little inside jokes and references and completely happy without anyone else imposing on them. Olli and Flake seemed to disappear all the time, and if they didn’t, Olli’s introverted energy was enough to fluster him and Flake would be with Till. 

Music really was the only thing that mattered now.

At night, he tried to postpone sleeping as much as he could. The thought of laying in the dark all by himself with nothing to occupy his thoughts but Till on it’s own was enough to keep him restless. He tried to take someone to his room after a concert exactly once, but then gave up 10 minutes into the conversation with the prettiest brunette he could find, suddenly feeling disgusted by the thought to let anyone else into his bed ever again. 

He wished he could cry, but the entire dreadful situation was nothing but an immobile, heavy thing on his chest, something that felt like it _should_ be released but _couldn’t_ because there was nothing that could get it to move.

The last option he had was to get to work. He played, and played, and recorded and recorded whenever he found a spare minute and until the calluses on his fingers broke. His hands hurt, but he was almost grateful for that distraction, because while he kept trying and trying nothing really worked. His brain seemed constantly foggy, from lack of sleep and lack of joy, and while he did concentrate, he couldn’t _concentrate_ , and whenever he found a melody line he seemed to lose it the moment after.

It was then that he started micro dosing. He was perfectly aware how fucking _stupid_ that was, how thin the line was between perfectly manageable, stimulating doses of cocaine and a full on drug problem. Addicts weren’t supposed to do that. Nobody really was supposed to do that, but addicts, even ones that had been relatively sober for quite a while, even less. But it cleared his head, at least a little and just long enough to at least sometimes record anything that sounded usable.

He told himself that he could do it with discipline. Tiny doses, use the clarity to play as good as he could, go for a run, sleep. Repeat. Anything to not completely re-programm his brain reward system again. Or did the fact that he needed it now already mean he was fucked? He wasn’t sure. At least, this wouldn’t kill him. It would get him through the tour, and then he could be back home without Till constantly having to be in the same room, and then maybe he could sleep, and if he could sleep, maybe he could play.

It was shaky ground, but it was good enough to walk on - until he got back from his run one day and ran straight into Till and his antics. 

Some tour management assistant, who was clearly to dumb to read the room, had booked his and Till’s rooms right next to each other that day, and just when he got out of the elevator he spotted Till open the door to his room with three giggling women on his arm. They were beautiful of course, and maybe Richard wouldn’t have minded in other circumstances, but right now seeing Till smile at them brought on a shock of jealousy so strong, it felt like he had been punched in the stomach. He just wanted to turn around and escape when one of them noticed him.

“Hey, RZK,” she said in a flirtatious voice, twirling blonde locks around a manicured finger. “Joining us?”

Till turned his head and their eyes met, for an endless, agonizing moment. Richard wordlessly pleaded with him, _talk to me_ , but there was nothing but a blank, shut down expression.

“Sorry ladies, but I know better than to compete with this one,” he replied with a wink, somehow still coherent enough to play the role that was expected of him. “Be careful tho, he’s a heartbreaker,” and he couldn’t entirely keep the poison and bitterness out of his voice at that, no matter how fake this entire situation was.

Till’s jaw tightened, just the tiniest bit, and there was flashing something in his eyes, but when Richard kept challenging him, he dropped his gaze and turned away and Richard opened his room with numb, clumsy fingers. _Just get me out of here._

15 minutes later, he sat in the corner of his room on the floor. His hands shook as he tried to call the last person he really wanted to call in a situation like this. But everyone else he could think of hadn’t picked up, and even in his current state, Richard had a sense of self preservation.

“Scholle, I’m kinda in the middle of something here.” His bandmate answered his phone with noise in the background and sounding annoyed.

“Paul,” Richard deadpanned, “if you don’t help me, I’m gonna blow my brains out with a shitload of cocaine in 10 minutes.”

There was a brief moment of silence and then Paul’s voice sounded very different.

”Richard, where are you?”

“Hotelroom.”

“Ok. I’ll be there in 10, no, 9 minutes. Don’t move. Don’t do anything. Do you hear me?”

“Ok,” said Richard. “Thanks.”

“I need you to swear to all of the meza double rectifiers in the world that you won’t do anything until I am there. Can you do that?”

“... I think so.”

Paul was breathing quicker now, it sounded like he was running.

“Swear to me, Richard. Or I’ll have to stay on the phone with you and then it will take 3 times as long until I am there.”

“Ok. I swear.”

“You _better_ keep that,” said Paul and killed the connection.

He was there in 8 minutes. He brought Schneider and Olli, too. Schneider took one look at him, said “Oh Rich, I am so sorry” and pulled him into one of his rare hugs. They maneuvered him unto the bed, Paul was on the phone ordering food, and Olli asked him for the drugs.

Richard hesitated. 

“I won’t tell you what to do,” Olli clarified gently. “I’m not gonna throw them away, or keep you from taking some if you really think that you have to. But I am gonna keep you safe. Got it?”

Ok. That sounded ok. He  nodded mutely, and gestured towards the small table between the bed and the bathroom. “I don’t understand,” he said without any context at all, “how he can just pretend like I don’t exist.”

“What happened?” asked Schneider, not missing a beat, and settled cross legged across from him on the bed. Paul got beers out of the mini bar for everyone save Richard, and handed him a small bottle of white wine instead.

“Where is Flake?” asked Paul, when he stayed mute.

“Trying to get through to Till,” said Olli, sounding doubtful.

“Till’s fucking groupies.” blurted Richard bitterly and tried to open is bottle in fruitless frustration.

“Well,” said Olli, “nothing he can do then. It’s still for the best. We don’t need to all gang up on the singer, even if he breaks the guitarist’s heart.” He took the wine bottle from him and opened it before handing it back.

“Flake thinks it’s Richard who’s doing the heartbreaking anyway,” agreed Schneider.

Richard observed them suspiciously, slowly starting to feel like he had actual emotions again. “How much do you people talk about us, exactly?” he wanted to know.

Schneider dismissed the question with a wave of a hand. “Tell us what happened,” he pushed.

Richard took a deep breath. He might as well, right? They had come when he didn’t expect them to. They might help. Maybe it was time to follow good advice and assume the best.

“I kissed him. Well, we kissed, twice. And he says he loves me. But he doesn’t like me enough to let it go anywhere, it seems.”

“That doesn’t make any sort of sense” found Paul. “The man has been in love with you, for what, more than 10 years?” 

Richard agreed with him but Schneider shook his head.

“Yes, and he did that with none of us being any the wiser for the longest time. The dude can compartementalize feelings more than is good for him.”

“Yes,” agreed Olli. “It must be horribly scary for him. Let’s say you two actually are in a relationship and it goes wrong. He’d be devastated. Loving you from a distance is what he knows. It’s safe.” 

Schneider nodded. “Exactly. The man must be scared. Give it some time until he figures out he really doesn’t want to miss the chance.”

“He doesn’t believe me, that I am serious about him,” said Richard sadly. He felt ashamed of that somehow. He understood Till had his reasons, and that they were justified. And he suspected that made him a terrible person, to be so flighty that it looked like he would always be unreliable. Did his reasons for leaving people really matter? He still _left_ them. Was he just faithless?

“That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard,” said Paul with some heat. “A blind person can see Rich is disgustingly in love with him. It makes me gag, really.”

Olli tilted his head and looked at Richard with a contemplative look on his face.

“Are you?” he asked.

“Shit, yeah. I am,” Richard said, stunned. It hadn’t really occurred to him until just now. It was a relief, weirdly. It made sense, then, that it hurt that much.

“See,” Schneider said, “you hardly know it yourself. How is Till supposed to know? He’s carried this around for so long, he’ll need some time to understand the facts are suddenly different. He’ll come around.”

“It wasn’t that sudden,” Paul disagreed. “This one here has always fluttered around Till like a moth around a lightbulb.”

That was true, Richard supposed, and like a moth he was getting burned.

“Since when did you get so insightful?” Schneider asked Paul suspiciously. “You haven’t noticed Till be a lovestruck fool, but now you know everything all of a sudden?”

Paul grinned triumphantly. “Nah, it’s just Richie here. I keep an eye on him. Keep your enemies close, you know?” He ruffled his hair.

The icy something in Richard’s chest suddenly started to shift. “Don’t call me Richie,” he said. “I hate that name. And keep you grubby hands out of my hair.” And then he started to cry.

“Aww, man” said Paul, and pulled him close into a brusque hug. “This is just a bad soap opera now.”

Richard sobbed into his shirt until their Pizza came, and he could form coherent words again. “I thought you were all still somewhat mad at me,” he said, sniffling. “For everything during Mutter.”

“Just because we think you are a pain in the ass it doesn’t mean we’re not your friends,” Olli said gently.

“Exactly,” said Schneider, who had answered the door for their Pizza delivery and now threw a few Pizza boxes on top of Richard’s bed. “You’re not alone, Richard.”

“You will be tho, if you ever smear eyeliner and snot on my shirt again,” threatened Paul. “You are disgusting.”

Richard laughed, despite himself. “So what now?” he asked, reaching for a slice of pepperoni pizza, “your advice is to just wait it out?”

“Yup,” said Schneider, and followed suit.

“Well, that’s just fantastic. Seeing as I am such a patient person, and Till so quick to change his mind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Too fluffy? I kinda think it is. Ah, well.


	10. Interferences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Till’s distraction tactics are exhausting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today has been a strange day, hasn’t it?
> 
> You know what else is strange? Over 100 kudos on my first fic. You are all absolutely insane, I love you, and I don’t deserve you. 🖤

Till had decided not to feel anything. He had done it before, and he was _good_ at it. There would always be a time when payment would be due, and when the pain would end up in notebooks full of fucked up shit, in scars on his body or in the nights alone where nothing was right anymore. But that was the future, and now was the tour, and _now_ , he wouldn’t feel anything.

It all depended on how good his stamina was. Not feeling anything required good planning (for the parties and events), concentration (especially when he had to be in a room with Richard), and most of all: commitment. You couldn’t just feel _less_. You had to do it _alltogether._ One crack could let in a flood, so you had to concentrate, commit, and plan well, and that took an immense amount of energy.

Doing it on tour for over two months was a marathon. Luckily, he was a good at pushing that wall. 

He almost made it.

Then Paul and Flake came to him. 

One day after check in, they just waltzed into his hotel room after him and _didn’t even ask_.

“You know, the way you treat Scholle is pretty shit.” Paul said, without any preamble. “I don’t really understand what’s going on between you two lovesick assholes, but he’s miserable. Fix it. Before it affects the band.” Flake nodded along.

Till disciplined himself. No feelings! He threw his baggage down next to a moderately ugly armchair, noting that this hotel room was one of the better kind. He went straight to the minibar, and to his satisfaction there even was a small bottle of vodka.

“That is really none of you business, Paul” he said, doing his best nonchalant expression.

“It is actually, if it leads to all my shirts getting ruined!” Paul barked, poking a finger at his chest. He was yapping, like a little dog. “Fix it! Or I swear to god I’ll lock you in a room with him.”

Paul stormed out of the room, his whole posture furious. This was bad. If Paul was mad at him, Schneider and Olli were probably too, and then it was just a matter of time until it _did_ start to affect the band. He didn’t try hard enough yet.

“He’s right.” Flake said. Flake, who usually always took his side.

“Really? You too? And what has any of this to do with Paul’s shirts anyway.”

Till let himself fall unto the bed, opeining the vodka. Drinking was treading a fine line. It helped - in the beginning. He just couldn’t let it get too much, had to stop before his defenses crumbled under the weakened self control.

“Richard cried into one of them and ruined it, appearantly. I think you could perfectly wash it tho,” Flake said, as if he didn’t just took a battering ram against his defenses.

_ Oh.  _

_ Richard had cried?  _

_ But he almost never cried!! _

Sharp pain shot through him, almost physical, and he stopped raising the bottle halfway for a second.

“He’ll get over it,” Till then decided and downed his drink.

Flake tilted his head, hands in his pockets.

“Maybe. But _you_ won’t.”

Just great.

—-

Sex was a good distraction. It was just the right mixture of physical exhaustion, pleasant feelings and having to concentrate on _any_ person that wasn’t Richard. Tonight it had been mediocre at best, but that was all you could really hope for with people that you didn’t know well (and didn’t pay for) and weren’t in tune with yet.

Till let his hand glide over the back of the woman next to him, struggling to remember her name. This was bad, and also meant he wasn’t trying hard enough yet. After all, she was a human too, and deserved to be remembered by her name. Was it Nikki? No, Nina! 

She was on her stomach next to him, smiling at him over her naked shoulder. He was propped on his elbow, savoring the smooth sensation of her silky skin. He liked her. She was a feisty, 20-something year old thing with dark blonde hair that had made him laugh two nights in a row and could hold a conversation about russian literature. She had drawn his attention with the way she had happily flirted with the crew people and her genuine friendliness - and with the fact that she seemed realistic enough to have no expectations.

“Tell me,” she said now, twisting a shiny lock of golden hair and inspecting the tips critically, “what’s the most erotic experience you ever had.”

Till laughed and raised an eyebrow at her. “Right now?” 

“Liar,” she said, and just proved again that she had sense. “Come on, humor me. It makes for good stories. Maybe I’ll learn something - for the unlikely case I ever meet Slash.”

“The Guns N Roses guitarist?” Till asked with amusement. She was funny - and honest. 

“Yes. And now tell me.”

Till thought about it. Unbidden, the sensations came rushing back to him, of Richard kissing him lightly in the dark, and then his legs around him, wrestling him on his back. Strong muscles moving under satin skin.

 _No. Not that_.

He shrugged. “I knew a Dominatrix once, who was pretty amazing with a strap on.”

She rolled around on her back and ran her fingers through his hair. It felt nice. Her mouth made a tiny, surprised “oh,” but then she smiled again.

“Knew? What happend to her?”

“She fell in love. The dude wasn’t into her dealing out punishments. Or maybe he just wasn’t into her doing it with someone else. Or both. Who knows? It was a pity, really. She probably regretted that, too.”

Nina tilted her head, thoughtful. “That must suck,” she decided. “I mean, imagine falling in love with someone and then they have entirely different needs than you sexually.”

Till agreed. “I think, it doesn’t matter that much, but if you love someone and can’t give them what they need, at least let them find it with someone else now and then.”

“You don’t think it matters?”

“The compatibility doesn’t. Sex is different when you’re in love. _Anything_ will feel good. And other things feel good too and have nothing to do with love. It’s like getting a massage.”

She laughed at that. “Glad to know I’m at least a massage.”

He smiled down at her. She had a pretty nose. “Maybe it’s a little different. My point is, if you love someone, don’t ask people to give up their kink, just because you don’t share it.”

_ Richard would never ask that of me.  _

The thought came sudden, and was extremely unwelcome, but Till had absolutely no doubt it was the truth. Richard would never try and cage him in.

“Sounds like people have asked you to give it up before.”

“They have. And I never can, and then they get really upset and break up with me.”

_Maybe Richard wouldn’t break up with me_.

No. He couldn’t think about this. No now, not while he couldn’t afford to fall apart. He’d had that chance, and he had wasted it. Move on. _Move. On._

He leaned in to kiss Nina’s perky breast. “And? Did you learn anything?”

“I don’t think Slash would be into a strap on,” she replied sadly, and he actually had to laugh at that. “You never know. Come on. Let me buy you breakfast.”

—— 

His bandmates wouldn’t leave him alone. He had no idea what he had done to deserve their meddling, but suddenly his love life seemed to be public property.

Not even _Olli_ could shut up about it.

It was early February in Manchester, they had been on tour for what felt like millennia now, and due to very intense partying with a few friends he had made the days before in London, he was late to soundcheck. Which was a bit shitty of him, to be fair, but not really an excuse to be in his business _quite_ as much. When he arrived, he found his band in a state of nervous unrest. Something was up, which was too bad considering he had a massive hangover.

Schneider, Flake and Olli sat on the edge of the stage, feet dangling, and watched Richard and Paul in a lively discussion with the sound crew. They were at the sound booth, and too far away to be audible, but it was clear everybody was upset.

“What’s going on?” He inquired, and joined them, squatting down next to Flake.

“We can’t use the usual channels for the monitors, because there’s some interference. Actually, there seems to be interference everywhere.” Schneider brought him up to date. “You’re late.”

“Sorry. And that is bad. Can they fix it?”

“They’re trying.”

Richard was angry. Till could see it from here, the way his jaw was pushed forward, the way he crossed his arms, the way he a resembled a porcupine more than usual with his pretty, spiky hair. Paul, it looked like, was annoyed too, and when the sound guy turned around to walk off the scene he aped after him in mock imitation. Richard said something to him, and then _they_ were suddenly arguing too. “Ah shit,” said Schneider. “Scholle is losing it.”

He was. He was talking way faster now, and his voice rose too, until they could actually hear him. “I just can’t be bothered, to pay people to not do their job, and then to talk shit about it to my face.”

Paul said something to him, quietly so they couldn’t hear it, but it didn’t seem to help at all, and they kept arguing, until even Paul seemed genuinely upset.

Till’a heart really demanded to be heard now, causing a riot in his ribcage, but he pushed it down. He _couldn’t_ feel sorry for him. He _couldn’t_ be jealous of Paul for being in this with him, and he couldn’t be _mad_ at Paul for not understanding that Richard didn’t need arguments, he just needed to hear that he was right.

“All he needs is a hug,” he murmured under his breath, and picked on one of the cables he was sitting on.

Olli’s head snapped around to him.

“Wow,” he said. “How about you actually be there for him then?!”

Till didn’t answer.

“You know he’s in love with you, don’t you?” the bassist pushed, being untypically annoying.

Trying not to feel anything really started to be so exhausting.

“I know that he thinks he is.”

“You really _are_ an asshole,” Olli decided and got up to leave, seeming to be tired of watching this.

A moment later, Richard threw up his hands and stalked off, away from the stage towards the exit of the venue. Paul shrugged after him and then walked back to the stage, joining them.

“What was that?” Schneider asked, concerned. Paul shook his head sadly. “He’s just stressed and still isn’t sleeping well. He worries they won’t be able to fix it in time. He’s just panicky.” He squinted at Till. “Where were you?! _You’re late_. And this really would all be a million times easier if you could stop whatever it is you’re doing.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“That is precisely the problem.” Paul said, annoyed. “I need food. Schneider, you coming?”

Christoph pushed himself off the stage, and Olli jumped after him. The way they turned their backs to him let Till know he wasn’t invited. They were really mad at him. He couldn’t quite ignore the pang of sadness that brought. His band being mad. _Not_ Richard’s sleeping problem.

Flake still sat next to him and had the sense to be silent. Not that Till didn’t hear him anyway. “ _You won’t._ ”

All of this sucked so bad.

—-

The final straw came that night. They were standing on the narrow steps to the stage, squeezed together too tightly and waiting for front of house to give them an all clear. Richard was right in front of him, one step above him and still nervously checking his wireless. They had fixed the monitoring issues, at least partly, but they all expected to temporarily not hear themselves tonight. It made Till more nervous than he cared to admit, and Richard was still seething with anger.

He hated this moment. He hated it like he had hated the moments before jumping into the pool, that endless anticipation of something scary and unknown, night after night. That their walking order was like this did not help. He could smell Richard from here, so close together, and he looked like some dark menace from a vampire movie in his military coat and black lipstick. It drove him a little mad, because he looked so damn good and because it was a little cute how vain he was, with his carefully spiked hair, and contact lenses, and the lines on his face accentuating his bone structure. It was easier to admit that he wanted him this way - easy to justify, _because how could you not?_

But no, _he_ couldn’t, and so he remained still, stoically standing there while the minutes dragged on.

“Rich!” 

Richards guitar tech was approaching from the side of the stairs now. Richard leaned over the handrail to hear him better against the rising noise of the crowd. “I got you on channel three now. We think that will work best after all.” 

“All right,” he called back, while the crowd was rythmically growing even louder. “Thanks.”

He turned back, struggeling to flip the switch on his hip, and then lost his grip on the flimsy stairs and stumbled.

Till’s body reacted without asking for permission. He caught him, one hand on his shoulder, one arm around his waist, steadying him. “Careful,” he mumbled into his ear, without really wanting to. Everything was in slow motion. Richard gripped his arm for stability and looked down at him, blue eyes wide with shock. Till could count each lash, silky and girlishly long, could see the way his make up creased into the wrinkles around his eyes, the way his lipstick was worn away already where he’d bitten his lips. Then he flinched away from him already.

Till let him go, and maybe the way the man that was supposed to be the closest person to his heart withdrew from his touch would have been enough to send him over the edge, but by then he was already caught inside a fist of hard, cold fear.

It was as if someone had poured ice water all over him. 

He reached out despite Richard’s unspoken protest and cupped his face, running a thumb gently under his nose. It caught a small trickle of blood, glistening black in the low light under the stage.

_Oh no. Please, no. Not again._

He stared at the wet smear on his finger, feeling his hand being pushed away, the flap of a coat beating agains his chest when Richard turned his back on him, and then the “go” came and he had a job to do. 

He never knew how he made it through the show. Paul would later call it mediocre, which meant he hadn’t completely ruined it, but he had done better, lots better. He thanked his routine and the machine-like precision of a show they had played a good 30 times now, and only came back up for air when it was all over, and he could lean his forhead against the cold wall of his dressing room _. It wasn’t like 4 years ago. It just wasn’t. He was overreacting. This was a panic attack, nothing more._

He found him a little later, in the middle of the packing up chaos. They had a tight curfew today, and the venue needed to be cleaned out fast, so the aftershow party had been moved and everybody was hustling to get ready to leave. Richard was in his dressing room, freshly showered and dressed in sweatpants, a black hoodie and a beanie. He was the total opposite of the man on the stage earlier.

“Rich...”

Richard looked up from packing his guitars. He didn’t look good. His face was haggard from sleeping too little and there was a hectic stiffness to his motions that Till recognized as a cocaine high, now that he knew what he was looking for.

In Richard, it added to his inherent fragility. He was the most sensitive of them all, and touring wore on him, grinding away at his patience and resilience, tossing him up to the highest of highs, and then sometimes dropping him to the lowest of lows, even without any additional drama. This was a low. Till had not even noticed it somehow. Although, as a grating voice in is head reminded him, that wasn’t quite true, was it? _He had turned a blind eye._

He had abandoned him.

He had always looked out for him on tour before and now...

The things he had wanted to say where suddenly all wiped from his mind and he just swallowed. He knew he was staring at him, silently begging him for forgiveness but the words wouldn’t come. The depression that had been flowing into him in a steady stream for the last two hours or so was absolutely crsuhing already. He was lost, and now he had to fight not to lose this man forever on top of it.

Richard turned his attention back to his packing when he didn’t say anything, his expression remaining a strange sort of blank, like there was an emptiness in him. When had he gotten that way? _Why had noone taken care of him?_

Richard carefully loosened the strings of his guitar to reach the fretboard and clean it. He worked methodically and composed, despite his obvious exhaustion. Between all the tour chaos, here was the perfectionist workaholic, who wouldn’t slip up. Not even in a state like this, not with his music.

“If you came here to give me a speech about drug abuse, please just leave,” Richard said calmly, almost sounding bored.

Till swallowed. “I’m just worried.”

“Right. You got a great way of showing just how much you care.”

_ Richard, I am so, so sorry ... _

“Of course I care.” Till managed to say. He couldn’t remember ever having felt so sad before. He was crushed. How much of him was really left still? How could anyone even feel like this? “Please don’t think I don’t.”

Richard tightened a silk wrap around his favourite guitar and then carefully closed the lid on the case, douple checking the clamps. Then he turned around, leaning back at the table with his hands behind his back. There was still that haunting blankness about him, and it made him seem like a stranger. He looked at the floor, not meeting his eyes. Till felt terribly shut out.

“I don’t know what you want to hear. That I’ll stop? I will. Are you happy with that?”

“Yes, but ...”

Richard interrupted him, irritation winning over his detached demeanor.

“What do you want? You haven’t talked to me for weeks, and now what? I don’t need you to babysit me. I am fine. I have help, I got it under control, and I know what I’m doing. I’m having a shit time, that’s all. I’ll get over it, and I’ll be fine.”

Till believed him. Of course he would be. Richard hat puzzled himself back together through way worse things. Each of them had.

“Tell me what I can do?” He asked, blinking away sudden tears.

_ To make up for it. To help. Anything. _

“I’d say stop being an asshole, but I am not sure if you _can_ do that,” Richard said bitterly.

“I am so sorry.”

“Yeah well, sorry just sometimes doesn’t quite cut it anymore.”

He turned back to packing his things, his back signaling that this discussion was over.

Till wanted to argue with him. Beg him for forgiveness on his knees, if he had to. But he looked so exhausted and out of patience, and Till knew he was hurt deeply and he just didn’t know how to fix anything or force a conversation that he felt at this moment would just destroy more than it could fix. He figured he had no right to ask more of him so he just hung his head and mumbled “Ok, sorry. Well, just let me know if there is anything at all I can do...” 

He was at the door already when Richard did give him an opening. “You can help me stacking these. That’s useful, at least.” He gestured vaguely at the boxes and cases that needed to be piled up on a trolley for easy transport.

Till was so glad, he almost stumbled in his effort to comply. He carefully stacked the guitarcases and smaller flight cases that held all sort of bits and pieces, taking care to not bump them into anything - because Richard hated that. They worked silently side by side to pack it all up, and it was awkward, but it was _something_. 

When they were done, Till sat down on the small, beaten up couch and hoped Richard wouldn’t kick him out. He stared at his hands, nibbling away on his cuticles. He still felt like a punished child.

Richard _didn’t_ kick him out. He plopped down on the other end of the couch, which was still way too close considering how small it was, and was about to light a cigarette when some of the crew members stuck their heads in.

“Guys, the shuttles are late. Half an hour! Sorry!”

Richard dropped his cigarette, and growled in frustration, head thrown back against the leather. “Great. _Fuck_ this day.” He rubbed his eyes. “I just wanna fucking sleep!” he yelled.

Till just wanted to hug him. The instinct was so strong, his body betrayed him again and he turned his upper body and put his arm over the backrest behind his friend. He very briefly touched the other man’s shoulder with his fingertips before he rememberd himself and drew back.

Richard observed his movement out of the corner of his narrowed eyes. He was absolutely seething again, anger dangerously bubbling under the surface. Till was happy to see it. It was better than that horrible emptiness from 10 minutes ago. 

Scholle shook his head in annoyance and rubbed his face again before he leaned sideways into his arms with obvious frustration at the surrender and ruthlessly (and painfully) pressed his elbow into Till’s thigh as he settled down. He had his back against his chest now, and his warm body felt as soothing against Till’s soul as his aloe vera cream did on fresh burns. “You’re a fucking asshole, do you know that? Lindemann, if you ever do that to me again ... honestly, do you know how fucked up that was?!”, he complained, basically spewing poison.

Till tightened his arms around him, resting his hands on his chest. The fabric of Richard’s sweater was soft with age and the wool of his beanie was scratching his neck. This was _good_. He’d happily have Richard insult him some more if it meant he could stay this way. 

“It won’t happen again. Please forgive me,” he whispered. Richard scoffed and finally got around to lighting his cigarette. “In a few days, _maybe_.”

Good enough.

Till pointed at the cigarette. “Can I have one of those?”

Richard shrugged and waved his hand. His half empty pack was still on the table, three meters away from the couch.

“I’ll pass.”

“Lazy fuck,” Richard said, although they both knew that wasn’t the reason Till wouldn’t move right now.

“Hmm.”

They descended into considerably less awkward silence, and Richard took a few drags before he gave in again and held his cigarette back for him to share it. “Leave some for me, or it’ll be a few days longer.” His hand was shaking slightly. He was coming down.

Till “hmmed” in agreement and they passed the cigarette back and forth for a while until it was finnished and Richard unceremoniously stumped it out on the already spotty leather couch. He shivered a bit and nuzzled in closer. His head came to rest under Till’s chin, and he finally started to look a bit more peaceful, despite being in obvious discomfort. It wasn’t even cold in here.

“If you’re crashing this hard, you’re taking too much,” Till said gently and rubbed his arms to warm him up a little. 

“Fuck you,” Richard said, unwilling to discuss it. “It was just a bad day.”

Till let it go.

“You smell good,” he said instead, feeling slightly stupid. He really wanted to get that of his chest, somehow.

“Hmm. That’s because I spend the equivalent of two months worth of cigarettes on it.”

Till didn’t want to do the math on how much that would be. “The pyro smell is ruining it a little.”

Richard flipped him off rudely.

“It is not,” he claimed. “It’s coordinated.”

“How do you coordinate something like that?”

“I know a perfume guy in New York. I just brought him some lyco powder and made him pick something that would go well with it.”

Till smiled a little, his heart tight and painful in his chest. 

“You are unbelievable.”

“You love that about me.”

Till knew he was probably supposed to have some sort of witty comeback for that, but his mind was foggy with sadness. He _did_ love him. What do you say to that?

Then Richard pushed his hand slowly under his, entertwing their fingers. His palm was soft, his fingertips rough and calloused.

“I’ve missed you,” he whispered. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to dedicate this chapter to my lovely hairdresser, who makes a little cameo in this. She was one of the last people I saw before everything locked down here. Her name isn’t Nina, but she has golden hair, and, in her own words, would “fuck Slash, even when he is 90.” We talk about Tolstoi and she always nails my haircolor, that now no soul is gonna see in full glory in these sorry ass times.


	11. 6300 kilometers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first leg of the tour comes to a close, and Till and Richard find themselves divided by a big body of water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this was hell. I always knew how to get to this point, and how it will get on from here, but I never considered how to get them from part a to part b. 
> 
> I wrote this chapter 5 times. I still think it’s so disjointed, but it at least has a few moments now that I am semi happy with - and we get them to part b. Good enough? I’ll let you be the judge of that.
> 
> Sorry it took me so much longer than planned <3

“This sucks.” 

Schneider stared at the flimsy piece of copy machine paper in front of him. “How am I supposed to be a human being between all of this?”

They had gotten their day sheets for the last five days of touring ten minutes ago, and Till had to admit Schneider’s question was highly justified. He thought that if he ever had the chance of hiring crew again without firing someone first, he’d make sure they understood the concept of “spacing things out.” There was really no rational reason at all for spending four months of touring with nothing but waiting around only to then cram each and every meet and greet under the sun into a handfull of days.

Till missed Richard. He’d last seen him an hour ago for soundcheck, and now he missed seeing him. He had no idea how he was supposed to cope with nine weeks of 6300 kilometers between them until the rehearsals for the second leg of this tour would start. He had five days left with him. He had no time for any of this.

“Well,” said Paul reasonably, “at least I won’t have any time left to think about how incredibly much I miss my own coffee machine. Or my bed, for that matter.”

They were sitting in another community room of yet another venue, currently having about three hours left until show time, and as usual, the coffee did not live up to Paul’s expectations. Flake was missing and Olli sat on a plastic chair outside in the sun, leaned back, legs on another chair and his eyes closed.

It almost felt like spring. The sun felt warm for the first time this year, and maybe Till would have enjoyed it - if joy hadn’t been a bit outside his current realm of general experience. _Where was Richard?_

Paul, Schneider and Till sat around a table in the corner, Paul and Till on the bench in a 90 degree angle, Schneider on a chair. They were waiting for catering since about twenty minutes ago, but as usual nothing was happening. Not that he particularly felt like eating.

“Did you guys see this?!!” Richard finally appeared through the sliding doors, slightly disgruntled looking and waving an identical piece of paper. “Why are we paying these people.”

“I know,” said Paul. “Do you think they are gonna let me take a shit at some point?”

Richard smirked slightly and then appeared momentarily lost as to where to sit. Either Till or Paul would need to move in order to make room for him, and his eyes landed on Till. Big, pleading, puppy dog eyes.

Richard had been true to his word and seemingly wasn’t angry, but he was _wary_. He always seemed to have to gather his courage to address Till. In fact, he seemed so scared of being send away again, it made Till sick with guilt every time he was in the same room with him. It drove home how catastrophically he had messed up more effectively than any amount of anger, blame or aggression could have ever done. Gone were the days of his erratic friend just waltzing into his hotel or dressing room in various stages of upset and without any regard for basic privacy protocol. Richard still expected him to not respond, and his pleading eyes every time he approached him broke Till’s heart a few times every day. He tried to make up for it by seeking Richard’s presence as much as he dared without being damn too clingy. He needed to make sure he knew he still loved him somehow, even if he had ruined every chance he’d ever had with him.

Till hurried to make room on the bench and Richard set down next to him, his knee bumping into him. He didn’t withdraw his leg, and neither did Richard.Body contact was the one thing that still seemed to effortlessly work between them. 

“Where have you been?” Till asked quietly, hoping he wouldn’t sound controlling or possessive. He had no business asking him that.

“I called home,” explained Richard, not seeming bothered at all. “Arranging with my friend who looks after my place when to meet up for the keys and all that. We got a bit chatty.”

Till could only nod.

He had to ask him to stay. He knew what the answer would be, but he still had to ask. Just for that 0.00001 % chance of him saying yes.

“How did you all of all people end up with someone actually waiting about when you get home?” enquired Schneider, clearly jealous. “When I get home, I am glad if the place still exists, the water still runs and I left nothing in the fridge.”

“Nobody is waiting.” Richard clarified, arms crossed. “She’s just watering my plants and goes round to check if the place still stands and the water still runs once a week. I pay her for it, if you must know.”

“You have plants? _That survive?!_ ” inquired Paul, incredulous. “Who are you, anyway, and how are you in this band?”

“I have plants,” Till interjected mechanically. He could be glad his entire band had seemingly forgiven him just as fast as Richard had, so he made an effort to take part in conversations, even when it felt like someone else took over his speech. _Richard is going to leave again._

“You,” Schneider said, “live with your sister. Honestly, it doesn’t count.”

“I’m not gonna pay someone to wait for me,” Paul decided. “I’m gonna convince Ari to do it out of the goodness of her heart.” He grinned a little dumbly, as if being in love had fused together a few too many of his brain cells. That man was so besotted it was disgusting.

Richard seemed to agree.

“If she’s that good, she’s too good for you” he decided and started to tear small pieces out of the paper still in front of him. He could never quite keep his finger unoccupied for long.

“You’re just jealous.” Paul said, thoughtlessly, drinking his way too bright looking lemonade.

“Yes,” admitted Richard, to everyone’s surprise. He sounded bitter. “People don’t like being with people that are _away_ all the time. It’s annoying that you of all people get to be so lucky.”

He shot a glance at Till. There was hurt in his eyes.

I have to stop this, Till thought. He was running out of time, and he needed to stop this. But he was a coward, so he didn’t do anything.

They were at a standstill. They probably needed to talk, but it somehow never happened. Till could tell Richard waited for him to make some kind of move. He hadn’t explained yet why he had done what he had done, he wasn’t sure if he even could. He’d turned him down. The ball was in his court - but there was a merciless schedule grinding them all to dust and he was convinced at the end of whatever move he could make, there would be nothing but the final truth: he could have had a shot at that great love, could at least have tried it, and his own cowardice had prevented it.

So instead of asking Richard to take a walk with him and talk, he slumped down a bit deeper into the upholstery of the bench and ignored Paul and Schneider’s collective eyeroll at them both. 

—-

The end came shockingly fast. After one last never-ending 48 hour day in which they had played two shows in a row and a loud and messy farewell party, they suddenly sat in the middle of a Slovakian parking lot and shared their last cigarette. They had taken up on doing that somehow, maybe to make up for that impossible silence between them, and Till savored those moments of intimacy when their fingers touched and the damp on the filter felt like a second hand kiss. He really wasn’t supposed to smoke, but voice be damned, those moments mattered more.

Richards fingers were shaking slightly and he looked miserable and hungover under the grey sky over Bratislava. He shivered in a sweater that was too big for him and looked liked a lost teenager, staring at the wall of the industrial building infront of them with bleary, bloodshot eyes. He looked so tired. Everyone was tired. Every bone of everyone was tired. 

When he handed over the last little stump, Till caught his fingers in his hand and squeezed them. They were cold.

“Please don’t go?” he whispered, even tho he knew what the answer would be.

“I thought about it,” Richard said quietly, surprising him. 

“But I’m just going to New York, not leaving the galaxy. I’m a flight away. You can call whenever you like. I’ll be back in 2 and a half months. Me being over there isn’t the problem.”

Till knew he was right. He took Richard’s clammy hand between his own and massaged it gently until it started to feel a little warmer. That transatlantic flight would be hell for the poor guy on this little sleep.

“I know. I had to ask.” Till defended himself.

“I love New York. I love who I can be in New York. I would resent you if you made me stay.”

Till winced.

“Allright. I won’t ask again.”

“I’m glad you did ask. I just wish you’d ask for anything but the one thing I can’t give you,” Richard said and gently retracted his hand.

Till shoved his hands under his armpits to keep himself from reaching out after him. He wasn’t sure if he really understood what Richard was telling him, but it didn’t seem to be terribly important right at this moment. 

The loss of contact hurt. Till tried to tell himself that the little break would be good for them. It would give them time to normalize around each other. But he just didn’t want this separation. 

“Till ...”

“Hmm?”

“Call me. Ok?”

Till was notoriously bad at that. It never felt real to him, and he hated the disconnect of hearing someone but not seeing their face, but Richard’s sad blue eyes only allowed one answer.

“Yeah, ok. I will.”

A few hours, a last desperate hug and a short flight later, Till collapsed on his own bed in his clothes, and Richard was on a plane that took him further and further away. Till refused to think about it and fell asleep, still in jeans, for 16 hours straight. The two days after that was a haze of disoriented sleeping, eating, and trying to become a person again. You couldn’t really make up for lost sleep. You could always try.

When he was recovered enough to think again, Till hardly understood what had happened. The come down from the tour frenzy into his quiet, retracted life was messing with his head, he didn’t understand where he stood with Richard now, and he felt like had been dropped from a highly intense foreign dimension into something so ordinary it made his blood curdle. He felt strange and clumsy when he went grocery shooping, an activity that he seemed to remember how to do perfectly, but couldn’t at all understand anymore, and when he visited his daughter and realised her hair looked a lot longer than the last time he had seen her, it gave him a strange sort of vertigo. What the hell have I been doing the last months? The last year?!

It felt like just yesterday that he had written a song that was supposed to help him to get over Richard, and then suddenly Richard had known, and even more suddenly Richard had proposed to attempt a relationship with him, all while jumping back and forth between continents and climates and timezones, and where the hell had they even been. And the only thing he had given Richard back for his generosity and understanding was avoidance tactics and silence, and Richard ... he had to be so dissappointed in him.

However, that seemed almost beside the point, now. Till missed him. Terribly. He was suddenly counting each minute that he could have been with him on tour but hadn’t and filed them under his personal list of “things I regret the most in my entire useless life”. He missed Richard’s complaining, he missed his catastrophic rants about something he was passionate about and where he could talk for half an hour non stop without saying anything understandable. He missed his smile, the genuine one, that could light up everything. He missed him playing the same riff for an hour, only interrupting it with curses when it didn’t match the sound in his head. He missed his cigarette and cologne smell, his grumpiness in the morning and the way he fussed about his hair. When was the last time they just had spend time together? _It hurt, god why did it hurt so much?_

To feel better he went out hunting. He packed his small tent, a bit of food and his notebook and intended to disappear from the face of the earth for at least a week. On the third night, it rained so hard the waterproofing on the tent failed. He was awfully cold, watched the sunrise trembling and thought about Richard under a different sky than him, doing things he didn’t know about, and remembered his promise to call with a guilty pang. The night after that wasn’t better, and the day after that he gave up and went back home. 

He caught a nasty cold. When his daughter visited him to catch up some more after the tour, she found him feverish, trembling and desolate. She pressed him for answers until he finally relented and grumbled something about having “messed up with someone that mattered”. When she left, she pressed his hand in encouragement. “Whoever it is Dad, you need to make a move or move on over it. Ok?” she pleaded with him. Till figured that was probably sensible advice.

A couple of days later he was well enough to properly eat again. He was just beginning to enjoy his stew when Paul send him a mail with a download link to the first set of photos by their tour photographer. Picture number seven was a shot of them during the outro, himself staring out at the crowd and a smiling Richard with an arm around his shoulder, pressing a kiss to Till’s temple. After that the tears finally came and then they didn’t seem to stop anymore.

He didn’t make it through another two days. When he crumbled, he didn’t even stop to consider the time difference.

—-

Richard woke up disoriented and with a headache and wondered why he still felt jet lagged.

He’d gotten through the first days of biorhythm hell and drug withdrawal with nothing but iron discipline and the ridiculous potency of american over the counter meds. The last days or so he had started to finally feel normal again, even good sometimes.

He was torn between uncertainty and the giddy, butterflies in his stomach sort of happiness that overran him everytime he managed to cling on to what his bandmates had said. _Till will come around._

But would he?

Everytime he asked himself that, his hard won contentment seemed to wilt away.

Nothing ever fixes itself. Richard knew that, of course, but once more the world seemed to want _him_ of all people to fix shit, and it started to get really old. Especially because it felt like he hadn’t broken anything this time around, and the only reason why he seemingly had to fix something was because the person who had done the damage was a big, moping old child.

Moping was perhaps a bit unfair. Till had been absolutely miserable those last days on tour, and Richard would have felt sorry for him - if it hadn’t been for the fact he still hurt. He wasn’t angry at Till. He probably never even really had been. But he had been made to feel like he was being erased and rendered invisible - and why? Because Till was scared of something, that much was certain, but was that good enough of an excuse? No.  


_ No.  _

Richard couldn’t fight for people to love him anymore. He had done it so much. He was tired of being rejected. He’d thought with Till he didn’t have to, and he had turned out to be wrong. He was disappointed, he realised, disappointed and scared Till would never love him openly.

Then again he was sure the he would. He just _had_ to. Right? This was too good to let it slip. As long as he only held on to that thought, life back home was pretty great.

He’d caught up with his friends, had sat in his studio and marveled at the sound he could get with more than just a makeshift assembly of sound cards and a laptop, and had walked through central park smiling at the liveliness of this big, restless city. The very first signs of spring were all around him, a man played a beautiful sax solo on the subway and he bought salted mangoes with chili that almost made him forget that he missed bread. He _missed_ Till, but then he figured that he was in love, and might just as well bask in that emotion for a bit and not worry too much. Then he was surprised at how mature and sane that notion was, panicked, and went for a run that he finnished giggling and sobbing and a little manic. What the hell. He _really_ was in love.

Right now however, he wondered why he suddenly felt like hell again - until he realized it was 4 am and his phone was buzzing. He was just about to pick it up, still clumsy with sleep, when the name across the screen reached his foggy brain and he jolted up right, suddenly wide awake with worry.

“Till?! Are you ok? Wh-what happened?”

His voice didn’t quite co-operate yet.

There was a short moment of silence. Then Till spoke, and he sounded strange too.

“I ... I’m so sorry, Scholle. I forgot about the time.”

Right. There was a time difference. 

“Don’t worry about it. How, uh, how are you?”

Till didn’t reply right away. Richard could hear him breathing strangely on the other end. Was he crying? All of this was a little surreal.

“I miss you.” Till sounded choked. Yeah. Definatly crying. _Shit._

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I ... fuck, I know I ruined every chance I ever had with you but I wish could have a do over, and I miss you, I miss you so much ... I don’t know what to do ... I was such a coward and I’m so sorry ...”

Richard was knocked back on to his bed with a sudden shock of weakness and pinched the bridge of his nose. He had the very inappropriate urge to just laugh. Each of Till’s stumbling, sped up words seemed to trigger a new wave of relief. It wasn’t over. They hadn’t been wrong. Till did come around.

“Rich ... please say something.”

Oh, right.

“I wish you wouldn’t just assume that.”

“What do you mean?”

“The ruining chances part.”

“But ...”

“Fuck, Till, why would you just assume that?! How about you just stop deciding for me what I think and just start talking to me?”

Till was silent. Richard could almost see his confused, sad eyed face and had to surpress another wave of laughter. What the hell was wrong with him? This wasn’t even remotely funny. Till still stifled his crying on the other end, for gods sake. It hurt like hell to hear him that way, he had no business laughing at all. He just felt so damn happy hearing from him in the first place.

“I... I haven’t?”

“No, dumbfuck. I miss you too.”

Richard rolled on to his side, clutching the phone to his ear, and left both Till and his own racing heart a while to sort through that before he spoke again. _Till wanted a do over!!_

“Will you come visit me?”

“In New York?”

“Yeah. You haven’t even seen my apartment yet. Or my studio.”

“Yeah, ok. I guess I could do that?”

Till still sounded scared and hesitant. He also still hadn’t stopped crying, Richard could tell, it was in his forcefully restrained voice. It made his stomach tighten. What the hell was Till so afraid of anyway? He didn’t buy the fear of it not working out anymore. Not ever since Till had shut him out, the surest way to cause exactly what he claimed to be scared of. There was something else going on here, something deeper, and to get to the bottom of that he needed to get Till to come here.

“It would really mean a lot to me.”

It was the biggest weapon in his arsenal.

“Ok. I’ll come.”

“Just write when you’ll be here. I’ll pick you up.”

“Ok.” 

“Don’t chicken out on me.”

“I said I’ll come, didn’t I.”

Richard suppressed another giggle. Till sounded closer to normal when he was annoyed.

“Just wanted to make sure.”


	12. Open shells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard has to pick up Till from the airport and bring him home - preferably without making it awkward.

Richard stared at the illuminated mirror above his sink after brushing his teeth for the 3rd time and contemplated the likelihood of Till picking up on that he had thrown up twice already today. There was nothing left in his stomach, he felt weak and jittery, and if he hadn’t known better he’d gotten a huge cup of tea, a heated blanket and called a taxi for Till. He was tempted - but he refused to let temptation win this time.

Of course he knew he wasn’t sick. He just had the worst case of nerves in his entire life. What good did it, to play infront of thousands of people, when you lost your mind at the prospect of picking up your bandmate from the airport? Bandmate, best friend, ... something else? _Don’t get your hopes up, you stupid idiot._

He grimaced at his own pale and bloated face and unhappily picked at his hair. It just refused to stand today. This was a beanie day then, and it called for an extra dose of eyeliner, or he might as well be a floater, washed up at the shore back in Mecklenburg. He turned away from the mirror, and allowed himself a second to drown in self pity.

He knew he was being ridiculous. Till had seen him in pretty compromising situations before - and that included waking up in his own vomit, bad drunk sex and pretty much any infective disease you could possibly catch when you traveled the world. Still. Was it really asking for too much if he wanted to look ok only _today_?

Till had taken exactly 2 hours and 47 minutes after they had ended that call to text him a flight number and a time for three days later. Nothing else. Still, Richard knew he would be there. The man had his flaws but he never broke his word - not once he had made a decision and commitment. Richard had spend those three days in a weird no man’s land kind of headspace - unable to concentrate, unable to sit still, unable to sleep.  


He wanted Till to see his life, his flat and his city, because ever since he’d learned how upset the man had really been about his move, he had felt this weird disconnect between knowing Till’s life so well and Till not knowing his. He wanted to spend time with _just him_ and without the band and it’s obligations around. Richard feared for Till to vanish into his woods and fields all by himself again after he had left him looking so brokenhearted back in Slovakia, and he worried about them growing apart too much if they didn’t fix whatever was wrong between them. Most of all, he wanted this to go somewhere. _He wanted Till_ \- and could only hope that Till had changed his stance on being wanted.

He checked his watch. 20 minutes. 20 minutes until he could leave and only be very much on time instead of just embarrassingly early. He went into his bedroom and dug around in his closet for his favorite black beanie and checked the time again. 18 minutes. 17 and a half. 17.

Ironically, when the time came, he still felt blindsided and like it all happened way too sudden. Arrivals was packed with people to hide behind, but as Till finally appeared between the milkglass panels that separated the pick up area from customs, he barely had a second to get used to the idea of seeing him. Till spotted him right away, despite his sheltered spot a few steps back from everyone else between two concrete pillars.

Their eyes met across the distance. Till slowed down for just a step, before he walked on, faster than before. He’d dropped his gaze, which Richard was glad about, because he didn’t think he could stand the intimacy of a prolonged eye contact. His heart was beating someplaceit didn’t belong, loud and fast and in a weird jumpy fashion that was probably not quite right - or healthy. He was overwhelmed, the noise and smells of the airport pressing in on his brain. He squeezed his eyes shut for just a second in irritation, and then focused back on the man meandering through the flock of families towards him.

Till looked like he weathered a storm as he made his way through all the people waiting and greating each other. He was dressed in all black, the collar of his jacket put up against a non existing wind. His black hair was gelled back, but a few strands had gotten loose, hanging into his face. His expression was controlled and serious - the same expression he wore when he was about to go on stage. It was hard to read, but also something he knew and had seen before, and Richard felt a tiny bit better instantly. He didn’t know how to handle Till when he was miserable. This he knew, and could get on board with. Till looked determined, familiar and a little unruly. He looked like home. Richard wanted to _get home_.

Their eyes met again when Till was right in front of him, dropping his duffel bag to the ground. Richard silently begged him not to make it awkward. He still felt queasy, he had no idea how to do any of this the right way, and the soft melancholy in Till’s eyes did something painful and intimate in his chest. His eyes stung. He felt lost at sea.

Till seemed to understand somehow. He looked insecure and shy for a split secondbut then stuck out his chin and pulled him into a warm embrace. Richard swayed a little, unable to lift his arms for some reason and settled on leaning in. Till took his weight easily, catching his impact with the steadfastness of an old oak tree. He felt weatherproof and strong and his arms around Richard like an anchor that would protect him from whatever wave was rolling in to sweep him away. 

“Hey, you.” Till’s voice was soft in his ear.

Richard was safe.

They stayed liked that for an airport-inappropriate long time, but Richard didn’t care. He concentrated on the rising and falling of Till’s chest and let the sound of his heart soothe him until he didn’t feel dizzy anymore. It was maybe a little fast, but still sounded like a reliable rhythmic machine. Boom-boom. Boom-boom. Boom-boom. Maybe one day he could write music over it.

Till moved first. He grabbed his shoulders gently and moved him away a little, pressing his hands down to steady him. Richard pointedly stared at his chest.

“You look a little green,” Till observed, a hint of a smile in his voice.

“I’m absolutely fucking shitting myself,” blurted Richard and wanted to hit his head against the nearest wall. That definitely wasn’t the first thing he had wanted to say to him. 

“Hmm.”

Till lifted his hand from his shoulder and tugged a strand of hair back under Richards beanie. It didn’t exactly help to make him feel less self conscious. “I’m scared, too,” he admitted. His hand stayed on his cheek and gently forced him to look up. He was attentively examining Richard’s face and he squirmed a bit under the unwavering attention. _What is wrong wirh my face?!_

Till’s thumb tugged gently on the sensitive skin under his eyes and then he dropped his hand back on his shoulder. “Off the drugs?” he asked, intently looking at him.

Richard shrugged and avoided meeting his eyes again. Shame pooled in his stomach and he loathed himself for being the kind of person who needed to be asked something like that. “That entirely depends on how you classify american vitamin tablets.”

Till huffed, and pulled him back into a deadlock. Richard managed to weakly hug his waist this time and buried his face in Till’s black sweater, inhaling the smell of skin, soap, and something that could be sea salt and sage. Till’s stubbly chin scratched his cheek, and the strange sensation hit him in the stomach with surprise. He wanted more of that.

“I’m glad.” mumbled Till. “I was really worried about you.” 

In the car it became obvious Till _was_ nervous too. Richard had calmed down a bit, relieved that they seemed to find a way to be around each other easily enough, and driving through New York’s afternoon traffic took enough of his concentration to distract him from feeling nauseaous. Till stared out the window at the glass and steel facades outside and tapped irregular rythms on his legs.

Tap-tatatat-tap. Tap. Ta-tap. Tatat-tap.

It was reassuring to see him being riled up too, but the sound was annoying and with time crept and crawled into Richards overloaded brain, until he finally had enough of it. At the next red light he reached out and pressed Till’s hand flat on his leg, forcing him to be still.

“Schneider would kick your ass.”

“Sorry.”

It sounded sheepish.

Richard had to smile despite himself and eased up the pressure a little. Till’s hand felt warm and rough beneath his own, and he wanted to keep touching it a little, so he just did. Out of the corner of his eyes he could sense Till looking at him. He pushed against the fear and knotted their fingers together.

“Don’t you need your hands to drive?” Till criticsized him and watched him sceptically as he drove on after the light had switched to green. His thumb gently rubbed the back of Richard’s hand.

“Automatic transmission.”

Till shook his head and mumbled something that suspiciously sounded like a dismissive “Americans.”

Richard laughed.

“Welcome to New York.”

“I think you’re still supposed to keep both hands on the wheel.”

“Fine,” said Richad and withdrew his hand, noting Till’s split second resistance against letting it go with satisfaction. “If that’s what you want.”

Till sunk deeper into his seat, pressing his hands between his legs. He sullenly stared at the road ahead. “Not really,” he grumbled under his breath. Richard flashed him a smile and he turned his head away. It was 99% certain he was smiling too.

At entering his apartment, Richard lost it again. He suddenly felt very conscious of the way this run down apartment building looked, even tho he could probably buy an entire house for the money he had spend here back in Berlin. He became hyper aware of how silly and overdone his black leather couch was or his silver threaded carpet in front of it. He didn’t think Till would appreciate his custom designed all stainless steel kitchen. Suddenly remembering Till’s discarded Mutter golden record, he fully expected him to shake his head at his carefully curated band memorabilia at the biggest wall in his living room. 

Usually he was proud of his little corner of the world. He had carved it himself, out of failure and shame and it was _his_ and his alone. He was proud of the floor to ceiling skyline view in his bedroom and his well equipped little studio. But today he thought of Till’s cozy home, or Schneider’s s wild garden, and suddenly his little corner felt showy and pretentious. An echo of a rockstar dream, build by someone who had no right to call himself that.

He watched Till take off his shoes and slowly wander into his living room, heart in his throat. It was strange to see him in here, his presence feeling a little to large for this city apartment.

“What do you think?” he croaked out, when he couldn’t stand the silence anymore after several minutes of Till studying the photos on his wall.

Till stepped in front of the window and plugged the strings of the acoustic guitar leaning in a stand next to it. It was old - something Richard had already played on back before the wall came down. It sounded awful and he only kept it because ... _because_. He wondered if Till would recognise it.

“It’s very you,” Till said simply, his voice warm and gentle. “God, I can’t believe you still keep this old thing in tune.”

Richard started cooking while Till took a shower to get rid of the “travel gross” as he called it. He made seafood pasta with clams. He’d specifically chosen that dish because it was very hard to ruin, even under stress, and could still be mildly impressive if he made the pasta himself and got the best clams available at Dorian’s. It went great with his favourite white wine and, most importantly, Till loved it. 

He’d just finished cutting his onions and started running his pasta dough through the machine, when Till came back, hair dripping wet and dressed in sweat pants and a light grey shirt. He was barefoot and looked so good Richard felt a wave of adoration towards him. He wondered when he’d be allowed to feel his body again.

Till leaned with his back against the Kitchen counter and watched him work, arms crossed and shy, and Richard just wanted the tension to end. He wanted something, anything, to happen, feared it at the same time and longed for an uncomplicated past he wasn’t even sure had ever existed.

“Can you get the wine?” he asked, just to say anything at all, and pointed to the bottle shelf to his left. “There’s glasses in the far left cabinet.”

He kept working on his pasta, carefully piling each portion of the freshly cut pasta into small heaps and covering them with flour. Till asked for the bottle opener and then poured them both a glass before resuming his former position.

Richard swiped away the remaining flour and moved the pasta machine out of the way.

“You’re staring.”

“I think I haven’t seen you cook in years,” said Till and put down his empty glass behind him.

“That’s ...” _not true_ , Richard wanted to say but then didn’t. He tried to remember when he had last done it and couldn’t remember. Jesus Christ. Till was probably right. “... _weird_ ,” he halfheartedly corrected his course.

“You used to do it for us all the time.” 

Till sounded wistful, Richard thought with a pang.

“I guess life happened,” he replied mildly. He didn’t really think it was that big of a deal. It wasn’t like he was some sort of long lost cooking prodigy.

“I guess,” Till echoed, staring at the floor. He seemed sad.

Richard washed the flour from his hands and then poured Till another glass of wine before he took his own.

“Prost?” he tried to lift the mood.

Till hesitated but then clinked the glass against his, the sound ringing out uncomfortably loud in the room. They drank in silence and Richard continued his cooking.

“Richard, how did all of this happen to us?” Till made a sweeping motion with his hand, somehow incorporating the space between them, the frames on the wall and the city outside.

They hadn’t just not cooked together in years, Richard realized with a start. They hadn’t really _talked_ in ages too. There had been a lot of talks back in 2001 and 2002. But ever since then ... life had just gone on somehow. He had no real idea where Till’s head had been, what he was thinking, how he was feeling. He had been so occupied with ... with what? With figuring himself out? Quitting the drugs? Finding ways to play music again without hating it? Basking in the busy energy of a town half a world away? Till had always felt so stable back home. Like something he could always return to and which would be exactly the same. But what if that wasn’t true. What if this was just another way in which he had taken him for granted ...

“Do you ever regret it?” Richard asked quietly, fighting against the flood of bad conscience.

Till shrugged, staring at the floor.

“Sometimes, I think, yeah. I was never really made for this ... noisy life. I think I just ... stumbled into it somehow. I could have been anything else and I think I would probably be content. But then I remember all the places that I get to see, all the things I get to do ... and how damn lucky I got. It’s easy to fall in love with all of that. I wouldn’t want to give it up, but it still feels so strange to me sometimes, and that’s when I have regrets.

“For Rammstein it couldn’t have been anyone else,” said Richard with conviction. He felt sad somehow. It wasn’t quite what he had wanted to hear. 

Till shrugged, as always unwilling to take that compliment. “How about you?”

Richard let his clams roll into the now sizzling pan, and put a glass lid on.

“I sometimes hate what we do,” he admitted honestly. “I hate the drugs, the circus, the endless days where nothing happens and then a life crammed into two hours ... but ... I could never have been anything else. I think the alternative for me would have been to do the same thing without success, so this is definitely preferable. So no. I never regret it.”

“I’m glad,” Till said genuinely.

Richard shrugged. There was a thought nagging at the edge of his mind, and further lowered his mood. He anxiously checked on his clams, but they weren’t opening yet. _What if they are all rotten?!_ When he could finally articulate what it was that was bothering him, it filled him with dread.

“Till,” he said quietly, “do you resent me, for dragging you into this? You know, for making you sing?” He hardly recognised his own voice.

Till’s head snapped up. “ _What?!_ Is _that_ what you think?!!”

Richard kept checking his pan. _They still aren’t opening!!!_

“It only occurred to me just now,” he pressed out, “but it would make sense ...”

“No.” Till was so vehement. “No, please don’t ever think that. God, Richard, of course not!!”

Richard nodded. He believed him. The relief came and went quickly and then he was left with the same old irritation that had riled him up the entire tour.

_Then what was it_. Why was this so hard. How didn’t they laugh and talk about the wine right now, or fight over these damn clams that _wouldn’t open!_ Till was supposed to tell him that he was too impatient, and he’d argue that he had bought them so late in the day they actually might have gone bad, and Till would call him paranoid, and then he could hug him from behind and kiss his temple maybe, or ruffle his hair, and a few minutes later all would be fine.

Sudden tears stung his eyes, hot and painful and really uncalled for. Of course he really needed to make an even bigger fool out of him self by crying over something that they hadn’t even talked about yet, or shit that was just in his head or about his food that didn’t work out, or whatever fucking else it was that he couldn’t control. He ducked his head to hide them but knew Till had already seen.

“Scholle.”

Till’s appeasing voice was close, and he touched his shoulder with a warm, heavy hand. “Let’s talk tomorrow. Ok? I’ve been awake for 22 hours. Let’s just eat, and watch a movie and just not worry for a little bit.”

Richard nodded again and hurried to wipe his eyes. He did agree with that very much, he just couldn’t _stop and do it._

“Are you gonna kiss me at least?” he asked and erratically poked at the clams in the pan. The shells rattled against the cast iron. “Please,” he added sullenly, as an afterthought, and mostly because he wanted to stay polite and not just demand things, even if he felt he deserved them. 

He wanted to back paddle almost as soon as he said it, because for a few seconds it looked like Till wouldn’t react. But then a strong hand was at his waist and pushed him back from the stove.

Till ran two fingers under his beanie and tugged at his hair softly. He was _so close_.

“Can I take it off, please?”

Richard nodded mutely and closed his eyes.

Till freed his hair and ran his fingers through them, sorting short strands of stubborn mess into some order and then another one and stroked his nape. Then he pulled him in. 

It was perfect.

The first time he had kissed him that one night it had been so sweet but he’d been drunk or he would have been too afraid of Till throwing him out of the bed. The second time during that awful fight had been so full of hurt and anger. This was perfect. It was so stupidly perfect, it almost felt like it wasn’t really happening at all. Things like this never happened to him.

Till’s mouth was warm and so, so soft and he tasted of the wine he’d chosen with so much thought for today. He let him suck on his lips, trace the insiders of his cheeks and share his air and he was _kind_. 

Till didn’t push or pull him too hard, he was just right. He held him with one hand stroking his hair and one hand wiping his tears away and took care of him without wounding Richards pride with a pity kiss.

It was _kind_ , and it made up for a lot that needed to be made up for.

Richard woke up from his motionless bliss when Till started to pull away and grabbed on to him with an arm around his waist too keep him close. Till indulged him,with a smile against his lips, dropped his hand to the small of his back and kissed him until he needed to come up for air.

Till put his head against his shoulder and didn’t let him see his face but his breath was quicker too. “You should check on your food.”

“I am sorry I am such a fucking mess,” Richard said hoarsely.

“Calm seas are boring, Richard,” replied Till cryptically. “Check the clams. I’m sure they are done now.”

They were.

They ate in a new found, easy silence. Till was happily chewing through his pasta, red spots on his cheeks and a tiny, spacey smile on his face, while Richard poked at his plate still uncertain if his stomach would deal with food while it was occupied with butterflies. Till went in for seconds, and then finished Richard’s half emptied plate because there was “no way I’m gonna let you waste that”.

They shared the second bottle of wine and watched the sun go down over the skyline and the city lights come up through the living room window until Till’s yawning became too annoying and Richard send him to bed.

“The bedroom has the better view anyway. I’ll clean up some and then join you.”

He stopped in his tracks. _God, Richard youpreposterous idiot._

“I mean. If you don’t mind ...? I have a guest room. It’s a bit crappy and small, but...”

Till shot him a dark look full of disbelief and wordlessly kissed his cheek. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For completely self indulgent reasons this was my favorite chapter to write so far. Sorry, not sorry for any heartache or diabetes caused in this chapter.


	13. High Wire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Till gets to discover the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I know this is what y’all came here for. Read the tags, or to quote NikoNotHere, smut ahoi. 
> 
> That shit was exhausting to write AND edit. How do people write this stuff all the time? I need a nap or 10.
> 
> Also, before you ask: yes there might be more, but also they are awkward love birds. Give em some time. For a change I don’t even care that this is fluffy. The world is dark, let there be light.

Till woke up slowly from a deep and dreamless sleep. It was nighttime still, but the sleepless city outside illuminated the room through the floor to ceiling windows, only covered by a thin set of dark but transparent curtains. He could hear it buzzing, the faint noise of New York at night providing a humming backing track while it glittered in the dark. 

He tried to remember for a moment why it was so dark and quiet all of a sudden and then realized he must have drifted away without noticing, comforted by the smell of fresh laundry, lavender and faintly _Richard_ and lulled to sleep by the domestic comfort of him clattering in the kitchen. Richard had not woken him up, it seemed.

He was next to him, curled up into a soft heap, his forehead pressed into Till’s side and snoring softly. For a moment, Till was transported back, to before all of this had happened and to easier times when Richard had sneaked into his hotel room at night all the time and had slept exactly like this.

He wore soft dark pyjama pants and no top, and once he woke up, Till would undoubtedly get a lecture on hogging the blanket. He felt a little bad - but if he put it back over him now he was sure to wake him up and he wanted to watch him for a little while longer. He felt like a creep doing it, but then clamped down on that feeling. He was in love, Richard stole kisses from him in the dark and shared a bed with him on his own volition and surely that at least somewhat included a permission to watch him sleep. Besides, that’s what lovers do, right? Which ... was that what they were now?

_“He loves you so much. Don’t let him down.”_

Paul had said that to him, in a rare intimate moment from the otherwise so unsentimental man, while he and Flake had waited with him at the airport until he got called to the gate. Till had felt Paul was the safest, least judgmental option to ask for a ride, if only for his pretend obliviousness and the watch dog persona he had developed on tour. Paul, he was certain, would approve of him doing this, and if necessary shove him into the airplane if he was about to run away from it. Flake had tagged along, a silent and matter of fact presence to have his back.

 _He just thinks he does_ , Till had wanted to say again, but hadn’t. What difference did it make? If Richard believed he loved him, everything he had done lately must have been a kick in the stomach for him.

So he needed to stop doing that and roll with it. Yeah, the end would be awful, but it had been pretty damn awful either way lately, so if he got to kiss Richard a few times and share some bits of life with him before the fall, what was the harm in that? He had wasted so much time he could have had with him, he needed to stop missing him and _be_ with him instead. He better enjoyed it while it lasted, and not question it. He wanted him, after all. It wasn’t very reasonable to go through with it, but he was Till Lindemann, pyromaniac extraordinaire, frontman of Rammstein, winner of drunken dares and outdoor adventurer. He’d been accused to be unreasonable and reckless so very often by now, he might aswell start to live up to the reputation.

He clung to the voices in his head that he kept repeating like a mantra. Paul and Olli telling him _he loves you_ , Flake telling him he wouldn’t get over it, Richard telling him _no, dumbfuck, I miss you too_ on the phone _._ Between those voices, the soft whistling of the plane and watching the clouds beneath him, Till had made a deal with himself. He would do this. If Richard still wanted to try this, he’d be in. He’d take what he could get, ignore the warnings in his mind and just do this. He’d get to do what he wanted, and that meant he could never complain about the consequences and that was the deal and that was the end of that internal discussion.

It was still hard to drown out the thoughts yelling at him how stupid he was. It felt like walking on a highwire, the stabs of paniclike suddenly becoming aware of the depth beneath his feet everytime he remembered what could lie in front of him. He kept walking, because the alternative was falling now, rather than later.

Lucky for him, Richard made it easy. _Easier_. With a pang, the image came back, of him standing there at the airport as if he’d been standing there for years, waiting just for him. He’d seemed so fragile, the tears later hadn’t even been a surprise anymore. The jittery bundle of nerves that had spend the afternoon fighting for his approval and putting way too much love and effort into that meal was someone he wanted to protect and take care of so badly, he had little emotional capacity left to care or worry for himself.

Till turned on his side carefully, desperate to not wake the sleeping man next to him just yet and marveled at the satin sheen of his skin in the low city glow. Richard looked calm now, frowning slightly in his sleep in a way that Till associated with him 15 years or more ago, when they had been young and foolish and Richard would have fought everyone who’d gotten in their way. Black hair curled around his cheekbone, drawing a perfect arrow at that high highpoint that Till always wanted to kiss anyway - even without being directed at it.

Behind him he could guess at a high tech HiFi system and yet another guitar leaning against a wall with luscious, silvery wallpaper. Till smiled a little at the effort at opulence, the bedroom with it’s glass wall, velvety carpets and soft cotton sheets was clearly Richard’s sanctuary. He’d explained to him that the architects had intended for this to be the living room - but that he had seen no reason not to wake up every morning in the best spot in the apartment and to the city at his feet.

Till recognized Richard in every centimeter around him. There were the piles of DVDs in the corner next to a big screen with all the movies Richard watched _all the time_ on top and others dismissed to the side with cracked cases, gathering dust. There was the black and white photography in the hallway, that tried a little too hard to evoke old hollywood glamour, the gadgety kitchen that the man had the nerve to actually _use_ , and a forgotten mini synthesizer behind the couch that Richard had undoubtedly left there after figuring it out for a night or two and now had no longer any interest in. Then there was his little wall of _look what I did with my friends_ that made Till ache with nostalgia and sentimentality and his old acoustic that they had already tried to pry away from him to sell for something better way back when - and that he’d protected with a scowl even then because it was his “first real guitar.”

It was a real person’s place, packed full of dreams that seemed foolhardy and silly back home in Berlin’s understated, rational cool and natural in front of the glittering backdrop outside. It was bittersweet, a physical representation of the man he loved, and a sharp reminder of his own refusal to understand him.

—

  
Till contemplated for a while in how much trouble he would be in if he woke him up now, and then decided it was worth the risk of earning a scolding after letting his hand hover over Richard’s face for a minute or so while he gathered his nerve. He touched his brows first, very softly, and then moved on, tracing his cheeks and his ears until the man started to stir the tiniest bit, lips parting and eyelids twitching. Till smiled at the irritation he had caused before he dared and lightly ran fingertips over a bottom lip. He could watch him _come alive_.

It was too dark to really see Richards eyes when they opened, but there was a small glint where the light hit and Till saw his brows knit together in annoyance.

“It’s the middle of the night, you know.” Richards voice was still thick with sleep and soft despite the implied accusation. “Are you ever gonna leave some blanket to other people?”

“Actually, it’s,” Till checked his glow in the dark wristwatch, still set to Berlin time, “9:30 in the Morning. And no.”

It took another moment for the understanding to reach Richard’s sleep clouded brain. Then he said “I hate timezones” in a tone that probably was supposed to be passionate but just ended up in a yawn. “They are tyranny and should be banned.”

“What about the sun? Circadian rhythms?”

“Can go fuck themselves.”

Till grinned. He wanted to pull him close and touch all that naked skin, but it was hard. There was still so much of him screaming that he _couldn’t_ , that Richard would push him away, that it was inappropriate or unsuitable, even though rationally speaking all of that was untrue or at least very unlikley. He forced himself to think of the way Richard had demanded that kiss and dug a little deeper. If Richard could ask him for a kiss like that, surely he could demand a hug?!

He forced himself to move the blanket and lift his arms in a way that he hoped was inviting enough and if it wasn’t maybe wouldn’t be too awkward if it was rejected, and hoped for the best.

It worked.

Richard smiled, a genuine, bashful grin that made his stomach lurch in that rollercoaster sort of way, and scooped over into his arms. He entangled their legs in what Till started to recognize as a signature move, and then went slack and soft against him, forhead leaned against Till’s.

There was a moment of vertigo where Till didn’t know what to do with the closeness and intensity of it all, but then he just put his flat hand between Richard’s shoulder blades, feeling after the muscles moving under the firm, smooth surface and forced himself to relax.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come here earlier,” he whispered. “I think I get it now.” He kissed the tip of Richard’s nose in a gesture he immediately found kitschy and dumb himself. “Why you came here, I mean.” 

Richard shrugged and shook his head.

“I’m sorry I didn’t check in more on how you felt about me coming here,” he said in a sad tone, whispering too.

Till let his hand travel over his shoulder, forward and over the muscled chest, in awe of how it felt beneath his fingers and that he was allowed to do this. He leaned in to place a small kiss on Richard’s jaw. And yet ...

“If I’d just visited earlier, I ... wouldn’t have held it against you as much ...”

“So you are ok with it now?” 

His voice seemed so small and wistful.

Till grimaced and hoped Richard wouldn’t pick up on it too much. “I still hate that you are so far from home when we’re off the road. But I understand that you need to be here now. It suits you much better ...” He could hear how unconvincing and miserable he sounded himself, and could just hope his efforts would be appreciated.

Richard lifted an arm and ran his fingers through Till’s hair, gently scraping his scalp. He shook his head again, his face so close now their noses were touching. Till could feel his breath hit his mouth as he spoke again.

“If I’d paied attention to how you felt, maybe it would have been easier for you to come ... I was so occupied with ... stuff ... I didn’t realize that...”

_No_. He couldn’t let him take the blame for this.

Till shut him up by kissing him again. It took a second to override the stubbornness of someone who infamously hated to be shut up, but then Richard seemed to melt into his arms, the full length of his body pressing against him. Till buried his hand in the soft hair in the back of his neck and concentrated on the soft mouth breathing against his and the way the world seemed to vanish around them, commanded to be silent by Richards throaty little sound when he asked him to open up with his tongue and he agreed.

Till started to recognize something about Richard’s kisses that was uniquely _him_ , completely part of the personality he knew and yet surprising in it’s physicality. Richard kissed softly, shyly almost, but with am underlying desperate greed that made his head spin and took his breath. He was perfect in the way he destroyed every bit of reason he might cling to, the way he had always sort of done.

When they needed air and broke apart, Richard buried his face at his shoulder, and grabbed his shirt with a tight fist. They found a common rythm without even trying, breathing together - each inhale a bad attempt at control, each exhale a shaky release. Till could _feel_ Richard, erect and hard against his leg, and it was a comforting feeling with his own body betraying him painfully, but he couldn’t help wondering what Rich thought about it and if he found it weird at all to be with him like this.

Richard tugged at his shirt.

“Can you take it off? I want to feel your skin,” he said sullenly.

No, _embarrassed_ , Till realized.

His immediate reaction was an absolutely not, hell no, _do you want to drive me insane?_ But then he nodded mutely, enchanted too deeply by the request.

Richard helped, and then put a tentative hand against his chest, looking anywhere but Till’s face to not meet his eyes and ran his fingertips through the hair on his chest. His hand was shaking. It tickled.

“How does it feel?” Till inquired hoarsly, certain that he needed something to diffuse the tension or he might explode.

“Uh ... like I’m 14?! And have no idea what I’m doing?”

—

  
Till’s held breath escaped in a relieved half laugh.

“That sounds awful.” 

“It’s dumb.” Richard sounded frustrated. “You’d think I would know how to do this.”

“I don’t know how to do any of this either,” Till said and violently pushed away his fear. “But I can try and take care of you. If you let me.”

Richard finally looked at him again. He swallowed. Closed his eyes. Gave a single nod. Till let go.

—

There were several things Till found out after that. He learned that if he bit and licked at Rich’s earlobes, goosebumps would ripple all over his skin, but when he did the same to his nipples he became flustered and shy and suppressed a sigh so it came out as a whimper. He discovered that Rich would be very still until he ran his hands down his sides and press his knee between his legs - then he’d cling to him and reverently touch Till’s face and pull him in for more kisses.

Richard was beautiful in the way he responded to him, soft and pliant one moment and the next arched tightly against his chest, seemingly unfazed by the the raw and scary desire Till felt for him.

Somewhere, his reptile brain screamed, begging him to rip off those wide, soft pants and grip into that mess of black hair. If only he could pull him closer, press Richard further into his ribcage until they were one, he would have gladly done so. He felt more of him right now than he ever had before, and it came with a new wave of greed, because it wasn’t even close to enough, would never ever be enough, not when Rich responded to each minute and involuntary movement of his hips with his own, until they both gave up on restraint.

He still remained the Richard that he knew, stubborn and unwilling to ask for the things he wanted. Till drew circles on his stomach and let them become bigger and bigger until he could let his fingertips run under the waistband of his pants, just briefly, enough to hint at more, little enough to let it look like an accident, and watched his face grow grim with frustration when he did again, and then again, until a furious “fucking hell, Till, just do it already” broke out of him. 

His hand fit neatly under the soft fabric of those age worn pyjamas, and Till was glad the intimate warmth felt like a secret that way, something only he would ever know about, instead of basic groping in the open.

Rich inhaled sharply, but it was Till who stifled an actual _moan_ as he closed his hand around the hard, smooth shaft.

For a moment all he could think about was how it would feel between his lips, how it would be when he licked over the silky, slick head and tasted the drop of cum breaking free now, and if Richard would throw his head back like now or look down at him and lick his lips. 

Then he pushed that thought away too, determined not to let himself go too far and scare Richard off and set out to unravel him with careful, deliberate strokes. He watched Richards face, anxiously looking for any sign of displeasure or frustration and couldn’t find any.

Richard looked _lost_ , lips parted and eyes rolled back until only the whites were still visible under fluttering lashes. He breathed sharply but was silent otherwise and dug his hands into Till’s shoulder. His skin shone wet with sweat.

He came with another whimpering sound, hot and sudden and immediately rolled to his side, pressing against him in desperate embarrassment. Till could feel his heart beat with his hand on Rich’s neck, strong and fast and held him until his breathing calmed, his own erection still painfully pulsing between his legs.

When he came back to himself, Richard laughed silently, shoulders shaking and face still pressed against Till’s chest.

“You know ... I never thought about how different this would be with someone who actually knows how to touch a dick.”

Till rolled his eyes, safe in the knowledge he wouldn’t be seen and grinned to himself, dumb with happiness.

“I’m kinda glad you didn’t until now.” 

“Of course you are.”

—-

“What about you?” Richard asked, a few minutes later, suddenly nervous again, and reached out to him. His body was tense with insecurity.

Till caught his fumbling hand, displeased by the sudden stress. _I guess this was to be expected._

“Don’t worry about me.”

“But ...”

“Richard,” Till warned. “Stop performing.”

Richard looked stubborn but Till waited until his body felt soft again and the fingers in his hand relaxed before he guided a calloused guitar players’ hand between his legs.  


It was so sweet, with Rich’s shy and soft grip that he tightened with a squeeze of his hand. It didn’t take a lot, and Till felt like he was a teenager too, but in a good way, as he panted into Richard’s skin, overstimulated and raw and feeling too hot and undone to still be self conscious. When it was over, he closed his eyes and leaned his head against Rich’s in tired relief.  


_I love you._

Richard held on to his hand and brought it up between them, curiously examining the glistening, thick mess he had caused on their fingers. His eyes glittered wet in the dark.

_ Then he leaned in and licked it off. _

Till half expected him to make a face and stop, before his brain gave out, but he _didn’t_. He was like a cat, seductive and slow, and licked until their fingers were clean of cum and just wet with salvia. He explored and contemplated, going after the taste like in a wine testing and didn’t seem to care about the bitterness. Midway, he looked up and caught Till’s stare, and slowed down even more before he finnished with a last gentle stroke of his tongue and tucked their tied hands under his chin with a triumphant grin.

Till swallowed. His head spun.

—-

“How are you like this?” he needed to know.

“Like what.”

“Like _this_. You just conquer everything.”

Richard just shrugged and tugged at the blanked until it covered both of them again before he snuggled close.

“I dont think I ever conqured anything without you” he said calmly. _Calmly_. Till marveled.

—-

They were silent for a while, until the words became heavy between them.

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Till whispered.

“But it is.”

“You are brave. And strong. And talented. You don’t need anyone. Especially not me.”

Richard sighed deeply. “Yeah, we all know. You always think the world just keeps on moving without you.” He sounded annoyed, and his snappy tone right now, after those vulnerable moments, _stung_.

“Technically it literally does,” Till said flatly.

Richard pushed at his shoulder to create the distance between them to look at each other.

“Till ...” he still sounded annoyed but then he _looked_ at him and his face softened. He put a warm hand up to cup Till’s chin.

“Till. Stop doing that.”

Till nodded, mostly to keep the peace. As so often, he felt like Richard could take his words and twist them, turn them into something untrue and tempting, pretending that there was good where there wasn’t any. It hurt, but he didn’t push, because he _wanted to believe_ it so badly, and he felt guilty for having destroyed such a beautiful mood. He closed his eyes, intend on surrender, and nodded again.

”Ok. Sorry.”

“ _My_ world wouldn’t keep moving,” Richard whispered in his ear and kissed his temple. Till allowed him to stroke his hair until it didn’t hurt quite as much anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are sloowwly getting towards the end of this, and I’m really scared I will mess it up. I hope I didn’t so far.


	14. Coffee and Pinecones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard wakes up to coffee and painful truths.

“Come on. You need to wake up now.”

A warm hand rocked his shoulder back and forth slowly, just once. It was a nice feeling but Richard still disagreed with the sentiment.

“Piss off,” he said into his pillow and immediately felt bad. He didn’t want Till to piss off anywhere, naturally, he just also really didn’t want to wake up.

“Don’t be such a grump. It’s almost noon.”

“I am not.”

“You just made a face.”

“You can’t see my face.”

“I don’t need to.”

Richard groaned in frustration and turned his head barely far enough to be able to blink up at Till with one eye. He wore sweatpants and was freshly showered, wet hair hanging into his face. He stood there with a cup of coffee in his hand and looked down at him with the kind of fond exasperation that spoke of annoyance but _not really_ , amusement glimmering in his eyes. It was Richard’s favorite way of Till looking at him. It made him want to be better without feeling like he had to. He’d missed it. God, had he missed it.

“My time or yours?” Richard didn’t entirely trust Till’s assesment of suitable wake up times.

“Yours.”

Richard’s assumption generally was that the worse your expectations were for the day, the harder it was to get up. Maybe it was the other way around - the nicer it had been in bed, the more impossible it became to leave it’s comfort.

He’d had a pretty good night. Possibly the _best_ night. Also possibly, probably, the most humiliating, because he was sure he’d actually been more of a sexually adjusted person as a 14 year old, but perhaps there was something wrong with him, because he’d still loved last night.

He thought he could still feel Till’s hand on him, the strength of his body, the way he’d be able to let himself fall knowing that he would be caught. It felt unreal. A dream, that couldn’t possibly stretch out into the day, yet here were the remnants of it, in the way the bed smelled of musk or the shyness in Till’s eyes despite the familiarity of their exchange.

“I am sorry?” he offered, guilty over letting Till bide his time until what for him had to still feel like early afternoon.

“No, you’re not. Sit up. I made coffee. Your coffee machine is horrible.”

“It is not,” Richard said, although it absolutely was, and forced himself to push up into a sitting position.

Till pressed the mug into his hand and sat down on the side of the bed behind him. He was very close, so close Richard could feel the cool air from evaporating water emanating from his skin. He smelled of Richard’s sandalwood shower gel and a sudden high of possessive longing and pride made him grin dumbly down on his coffee. It had just the right amount of milk.

He leaned back happily, feeling his back hit the firm, muscled chest behind him and suppressed his smile becoming even dumber when Till’s arm circled around his waist and pulled him closer.

“Is this weird to you?” Till murmured. He sounded worried.

Richard stilled.

Well ... yeah. There was that.

“Only when I think about it,” he pointed out grouchily, annoyed at being pulled out of his moment of mindless happiness, and started drinking his coffee.

Of course it was weird. When he thought about it, which he was still trying _not_ to do, Richard’s emotions were pulled into what felt like all four cardinal directions and stretched him thin, exposing his synapses to what seemed to be a deluge of brain chemicals that threatened to drown him.

The _weird_ weird was definitely down to the outright strange disconnect between waking up with that teenage giddiness of being head over heels infatuated with someone, the onslaught of lingering sensations and embarrassment and excitement of _that_ just having happened - only with someone he’d know for ages and who was so familiar he knew what kind of face he pulled when he didn’t want to get up. _Oh god, I so hope he liked being with me that way_ took on a distinct note of oh so strange when the person you thought it about was someone you’d exchanged intoxicated hook up stories with in the past countless times.

And then there was the other weird. The weird where he was torn between the feeling of utter safety and relief he’d last felt in that initial moment on Till’s couch back in Berlin when he’d realized that his true self wasn’t as unlovable as he’d thought, and the ice cold abyss he’d been dropped into when Till had withdrawn not just his affection, but the friendship, the trust, and everything else that came with it on tour.

Richard’s heart didn’t seem to be able to decide between the instinct of snuggling up against the shelter surrounding him right now, and the lingering feeling of betrayal, and neither could his mind, torn between _Till had a reason_ , and _Till might abandon me again._

He pushed the negativity away and concentrated on Till behind him, who had pressed his cheek against his back and looked out of the window with what Richard thought to be his patience stance - waiting for something to happen, leaving him be for the sake of leaving him be.

Richard leaned heavier against him, determined to only find the promise of comfort and to push the negativity aside and closed his eyes. Just a few more minutes. Just a while longer of only this.

“Richard!”

Till’s hand closed around his on the mug, keeping him from spilling it all over himself at the last second. The embarrassment crept up as heat in his face and Richard looked over his shoulder into Till’s eyes - melancholic and a little amused still and only focused on him.

„Why did you do it?” he blurted out.

Till kept looking at him for a while longer, the amusement slowly fading and then leaned his head agains his back again. Richard started to think he wasn’t going to answer or maybe hadn’t actually understood the question and struggled between wanting to let it go and becoming upset about the repeated avoidance, when Till started speaking. His voice was low, and very, very soft.

„You know ... about yesterday. About you making me sing? Or well ... you didn’t make me I think, you were just so persuasive... and anyway... that’s not what this is about. You know, I think I fell in love with you when you did that. I was always so ... alone. I think. I never felt like I belonged anywhere. Then you came and just ... you created a space for me.»

Richard felt a lump in his throat, his heart beating heavy all of a sudden. That didn’t seem right.

“Everyone loved you. You were the life of every party. You actually had a good voice. It was only natural.”

Till shook his head, beard stubble scratching pleasantly against Richard’s skin.

“No, I wasn’t. I just made the parties for everybody else. And then I looked from the outside in.”

His arms tightened around Richard’s waist.

“I sometimes think I am nothing and nobody without you. It scares me, how much I need you. It’s not fair to you. Nobody should need another person this much. It’s ... it’s wrong.”

Tills voice had become steadier. Like he knew what he was talking about, certain in what he had to say.

Richard felt overwhelmed. There was something _wrong_ , something flawed in that argument, but he was still trying to catch up with the way he couldn’t breathe normally anymore. If he could, he would have yelled perhaps, that he needed to be needed more than anything in the entire world, and that if anything wasn’t fair it was keeping that from him, but he wasn’t there yet, the emotion still too big to be put into a sentence.

“Needing people is the most normal thing in the world.” he managed to say instead.

“Not like this.“

Richard observed himself boiling over, about to snap not because he felt angry, just because it was way too much.

“Like what then?” he said curtly, trying to keep his voice calm and not quite managing.

“Actually, things go wrong everytime people pretend that we don’t need someone else. Parents who are acting as if their kids would be fine without their love. Or People pretending that they will be just fine on their own and that they don’t need love and they become bitter and hateful. Look what not needing someone does to people. It’s not natural.”

“There is such a thing as needing too much, Richard.”

No, there _wasn’t_. Not in the way Till meant anyway.

“Sure. However, I don’t think that is gonna be a problem, seeing as you managed to perfectly not need me at all for a couple of weeks there and didn’t found it necessary to tell me you needed me at all before this, ever.”

He bit his lips, angry at himself. That hadn’t been supposed to come out this cruelly.

“I’m sorry, Till, but what you’re talking about is stifling someone with need, and you’re not doing that, and I know you never would either, and you would be just fine without me, but _it is_ nice to jot feel superfluous for _once_.”

Till was silent for a long while after that.

Richard concentrated on steadying his breath for a while, grateful for the silence and the lack of argument, and somehow brought his racing thoughts back under control. Till was the one in turmoil here. He needed to manage, this was not the moment to press for answers he started to feel Till maybe couldn’t give. He needed to manage.

“Do you really believe that?” Till finally asked, barely above a whisper.

Richard entwined their fingers and turned around to face him. Till still looked out the window, but he didn’t really seem to see the city outside. His eyes looked huge and wet and lost, and Richard thought that if anything would ever happen to him, he would burn the world down in revenge. He looked like a deer in headlights, frozen but wanting to run away. He needed a push to get moving again. 

“Yeah. We all need someone. We all need to be needed by someone too.”

He let go of his hand and gruffly pushed on Tills shoulder to break him out of it.

“Come on. Let’s go outside a bit.” 

——

Richard took Till on a little walking tour around his block. Maybe it was silly, but he kind of wanted Till to see his grocery store, the place where he got his coffee, the tiny but amazing Italian at the corner and the even tinier, run down music shop two streets down that never had what he needed but that he felt he should support anyway. It was run by an ancient, adorable little man without heirs that ordered his strings only for him and addressed him as young Mister Richard, and Till fell in love instantly like he’d known he would and bought a pile of dusty, classic piano sheet music Richard knew he was miles away from being able to play.

They were awkward. Richard thought he bored Till to death, but Till listened attentively, damn too beautiful eyes trained on him until it got uncomfortable, and showed no sign of becoming tired of him playing an un-knowledgeable tourist guide. Richard ran out of things to show him, and being the unimaginative bore he felt he was today, dragged him into the subway to go to central park because that’s where you took visitors in New York and Till had only been there once before, briefly and probably very intoxicated.

The subway was packed, and despite Richard’s assurance that he had been recognized exactly two times in all the years he’d been here, Till looked uncomfortable and nervous with his arms held close to his body and his chin tucked. They were standing, Till pressed against the door and Richard had to grab on to him sometimes for balance until Till rolled his eyes at him and put his hand on his waist to steady him properly, hidden from view between their bodies.

“Just hold still and you’ll stop being tossed around!» he grumbled. His hand burned through Richard’s shirt.

———-

A while later they sat on a bench in the sun, surrounded by green and the faint noise of the city in the background. It was less crowded here, and Till looked more comfortable again, thoughtfully staring ahead at the family playing on the stretch of grass infront of them, throwing a frisbee for a happy little black dog. Richard thought he’d given him enough time.

“I need an answer,” he said as gently as he could while wanting to scream it. Picking off the varnish on his nails helped a little, even though he knew he’d regret it in 20 minutes when he was presented with the ugly fall out. “I’m sorry, but I really do.”

Till shifted uncomfortably and turned away a little, but nodded.

Richard waited. He started to wonder how he’d gotten so patient all of a sudden.

“It just _hurt_ so, so much,” Till said quietly. He had his elbows on his knees, hands folded, and was fully turned away from him now. “I thought ... I thought I’d avoid the pain by turning you down, but it hurt so much anyway. I just couldn’t deal with it. I couldn’t, I’m so sorry. That’s all I got. It’s not very good, isn’t it. You deserve a better reason than me just being selfish, but that’s all I have. I am so, so sorry.”

He sounded like he was about to cry, but then kept talking.

“I just... it feels like I wake up everyday, and there is nothing but, I don’t know, I guess around 35 more years or so stretching out in front of me in which I have to live with this, and I don’t know how I can do it. I don’t know, I guess pretending that it all doesn’t exist helped to get up in the morning. I’m sorry. You deserved better. God, Richard I’m so sorry, but that’s all I have.”

Richard let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. He thought it was quite allright.

“What made you stop?”

“You got hurt.”

Richard rubbed Till’s back a little, and then let him go to find his composure. He leaned back on the bench and looked up at the sky, a streaky, boring, light blue, and felt after breathing becoming easier with each inhale. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t Till suddenly thinking lowly of him, or rejecting him for doing something he wasn’t even aware of. Till hadn’t been mad at him. It was just Till, being a stupid, mute country mule and his damn avoidance tactics and his stupid self deprecating bullshit. 

It left him tired and helpless, relieved and utterly sad 

“I took you for granted.” It wasn’t easy to say. “I thought you would always be there for me. I thought I could always call you, I thought it was just a given. And then you weren’t. I messed up. I should have kept an eye on you more than I did. It was my fault too.”

Till sniffed and wiped his face.

“Can we just walk for a bit more?”

———

Till walked close to him on their way deeper into the park, down the smaller paths and away from the people soaking up the first days of real sunshine. Their arms were bumping into each other, and when Richard lost his balance for the third time while trying to cut a corner and walking straight into the wall of Till’s unimpressionable body, he stopped trying to avoid it and took Till’s hand, crowd be damned. Till didn’t protest.

“Are you not gonna grill me any more than that?” Till finally asked, when the silence had shifted from just uncomfortable to outright terrible.

“No.”

“No more questions?”

Richard stopped. Till’s hand felt rough around his fingers, and they were alone. He felt sick, like walking on the edge of one of New York’s Skycrapers and looking down. Maybe he would jump. Maybe he wouldn’t.

“Till, why are you here?” He said automatically, without even really intending to say anything at all.

Jumping it was.

“Because you haven’t changed your mind, haven’t you. You don’t think we could work out, you don’t think we could last, and you won’t believe me when I tell you that I want this more than anything else.”

Till let go of his hand, and buried his in his pocket. He looked at the ground, at a pine cone beneath their feet. “You’ll get bored of me, Richard. You’re always two steps ahead of me. I’ll drag you down. And honestly, I just wish you’d need me just a fraction of the way I need you, so I wouldn’t feel as pathetic as I do most of the time. But ...”

Richard turned and walked away from him. 

“Richard, wait.”

No. He wouldn’t wait. If Till was so damn convinced of all that bullshit maybe he’d have to be right, damn him.

“Richard, I wasn’t done yet.”

Richard walked on as fast as he could without running, because as much as he wanted to run, he didn’t want to give Till the satisfaction of losing his composure that way. He could see him trying to keep his pace from the corner of his eye. He hoped his damn knees would get to him eventually.

"Richard, stop.” Till grabbed at his arm, and just like that, with a simple touch, it was slipping away from him. He whipped around.

“Of course I need you!! I need to be needed so damn bad, you have no fucking idea how much I need to be needed by you, and how goddamn awful I feel about it, and what a damn relief it is thar someone needs me who won’t take advantage of me. I need you to need me and I need you to fucking drag me down, because if you don’t I’ll just get swept away somewhere up into the damn stratosphere some day and won’t find my way back home, I’ll just float away and die up there on my own. Damn it Till, _why_ are you even _here_!!!”

He’d worked himself up to yelling, and Till’s wide eyes and shocked expression tore at his heart but he couldn’t stop anymore.

“I know the next thing that you’re gonna say is how we’re risking the band, but have you ever considered that you’re the only person in this band who’s _worried_??!”

“And then,” Richard continued, his voice already hoarse and hurting from yelling, “you’re gonna revert back to the whole distance thing which we both know is _bullshit_ , and honestly, for fucks sake Till, if you’re just going to make excuses _why the fuck_ are you even here.”

He’d finnished the last bit quietly, out of steam and hope and answeres. He was sure he would start to cry again any second now, or maybe he was too tired or maybe he didn’t know anything anymore.

Richatd stared at the ground, at yet another pinecone to his feet, and with a last bit of energy kicked it towards Till’s heavy boots. He felt broken.

Till kicked it back.

“Because I want to be wrong. I want it to work. I want to make you happy, and if this is really what you want I want to give it to you. I want all of it. I’ll buy you flowers and dinner if you want to, although I don’t think you do. I want the transcontinental phone calls, and I want you to sneak into my hotel room at night and fuck my brains out, and I want to be someone you can rely on when you need to feel loved. I don’t think it will work because it would be damn to good to be true if it did, but if there is even the tiniest chance of me being wrong then I would be stupid to not even try, and I already know I will be miserable anyway, so I figure I might aswell be miserable after I had the pleasure of being yelled at by you in the middle of a park instead of missing out on it.”

Richard sniffed and wiped his eyes.

Fine.

“Guess I’m gonna have to prove you wrong then.”

“Yeah.”

“You know I _always_ win these, right.”

Richard kicked the pinecone back in Till’s general direction and dared to look up at him for a second. Till was smiling, a shy, absentminded grin, half hidden behind his collar. His eyes on him were way too green and he avoided them again as fast as he could, embarrassed and too raw after that emotional outburst.

“Well, you better win this one too,” Till said, and the smile was in his voice as well.

“Can we go home now.”

“... Ok.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry this took forever. Some of this dialogue was amongst the very first things I wrote for this entire thing, but finishing it up was so intense and exhausting - I think you’ll understand.
> 
> I’m gonna go and have a nap now. Sorry sorry sorry


	15. Salt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An exercise of love between friends.

Love involving your oldest friend did have it’s perks. Richard questioned why that hadn’t occured to him much earlier, when he realised that no, he did not have to explain to Till why he didn’t like to be touched, or talked to, or even be worried about right at this moment, because Till had always known how to navigate his moods, and didn’t bat an eyelash at his silent retraction.

Whenever his emotions ran away with him like that, he felt as if anyone could see the ugliness printed on his forhead, as if he’d unmasked himself to the world in the most disgusting of ways, and the lingering sense of wanting to sink into the floor was itchy and unpleasant and the emebarassment still clung to his skin. He wanted to curl in on himself, hide away, and so he did make himself small to the best of his ability while they made their way back to the subway. Till remained an unwavering and stoic presence, walking by his side lowly humming to himself and gave a believable impression of not minding in the slightest.

They got caught in the worst of the afternoon rush hour, and because Till wanted to get food and Richard felt as if every single person in the subway was staring like the hysteria he’d just unleashed was clinging like toilet paper to his shoes, they got out two stops earlier to get food - or air respectively.

It meant more walking, and Richard only wanted to go hide under a blanket and not move for a year, his legs heavy and aching, but by the time they reached the Indian take away a block down from his apartment, he didn’t feel like he wanted to disappear forever anymore. Instead, he thought a week or so would be quite enough, and the lumb in his throat had gotten a little snaller even if the prospect of the intimacy of his apartment or eating together still seemed daunting.

Till studied the menu with unconcealed excitement and penetrated Richard’s bad mood with his barely controlled happiness. Richard wasn’t sure if it was just them coming to some sort of an agreement, agreement to try, because that's what they had done, _surely_ , or just the idea of eating. It was almost annoying, and definitely completely endearing, the way he tapped his fingers to some melody he seemed to carry around and looked at him with wrinkles around his eyes and smoothed out face. Why did he have to be so nice. Why did he have to be so beautiful and why was it still so impossible to get over it already and hug him, like he wanted to do so badly, and why on eartch did he always have to be _such a mess_.

“Any recommendations?”

“Huh?”

“The food? What is good here.”

“Oh. Uhm...” Richard buried his hands in his pockets. “Everything really. I like the Butter Chicken, but you can’t really go wrong.”

“So is that what you want?”

Richard shrugged. 

“I’m not really hungry,” he mumbled, mentally preparing himself for the inevitable argument.

“Scholle, you haven’t eaten all day. And very little yesterday too!” Till frowned at him with a genuinely worried expression that did something warm and big and furry in Richard’s chest, but he could only shrug and stare on the ground.

Till touched his arm briefly, affectionate and a little too fussy, and then it was their turn to order. Richard watched Till ask for two portions of the chicken and some Naan bread in his adorable, slightly broken english and tried not to feel patronised. Till meant well, but ...

“I really don’t want to eat anything,” he muttered at his shoes.

Till shrugged, and looked characteristically stubborn. “We’ll take it home. You’re gonna have to eat something eventually.” His grin was pretend-innocent and cheeky as he pulled Richard to the empty table by the window, a little separated from the rest of the restaurant, and they watched people together as they waited for their food. Till had his head rested in his palm, failing at hiding his half worried, half smitten expression behind his palm. It was a bit embarrassing, really, but it turned out Richard had very little in him to defend him against the smitten part and his annoyance slowly faded as he peeled the label off his diet coke, so much so that when the food came he let Till convince him to at least nibble on some of the bread. His stomach responded with a grumble and suddenly he was famished and only his pride held him back from pulling his plate of chicken straight out under Till’s watchful eyes.

“You’re being cute,” Till accused him with a triumphant grin and pushed the plate over to him, apparently capable of mind reading all of a sudden. “Eat!” he commanded in the authoritarian voice he used so seldomly and that didn’t allow for any disagreement unless you wanted to feel thoroughly horrible for disappointing him. Richard glowered at him and scoffed but then shook his head and decided to be the _bigger person_. It was a _little silly_ after all, and he dug into the meal trying in vain to hide his smile from Till, because if he found out that he didn’t _only_ hate being called cute, he’d never let him live it down.

On their way home, Till put his arm around Richard’s shoulder, casually and warm, and it felt so normal the few critical glances they collected didn’t even register. Richard watched Till’s profile out of the corner of his eye and took in the relaxed expression of his face, the soft curves of his lips set into the tiniest of smiles, the melancholy of his eyes that somehow weren’t sad so much as warm and comforting.

Fuck.

The realisation that from now on, things would be so different settled into his stomachas he tried to gauge what that meant. _I want all of it_ Till had said, but what was all? Somehow Richard didn’t think it was calling each other boyfriends and buying each other dinner at fancy restaurants - that seemed a little silly and superficial and they knew each other too well for that to not feel slightly ridiculous, like trying to turn something they already did into something forcefully romantic. _I’ll buy you flowers and dinner if thats what you want_. It wasn’t what he wanted. Till with a bouquet of roses reminded him of the way he’d seen him say goodbye to his girls, infamously generous and caring, but saying good bye nonetheless. Richard didn’t want any of that. What he wanted was their friendship, and for Till to force him to eat like he’d just done, and make music together in secret the way they used to do. Till could keep touching his arm like that, and hold him while he was at it, and if he got more of what they’d done last night, he certainly wouldn’t complain.

He looked over at Till again, tentatively, and caught his eyes, green and twinkling as his face scrunched up in that toothy, rare smile again and he couldn’t quite help himself and ran into him as he reached up to kiss his cheek. Till caught him again, hands at his waist and laughed as he brushed his lips over Richards temple. For a moment, Richard had a strange sense of deja vu, not so much situationally, but mentally, that transported him back to the time it had been _just them_ , barricading the windows of the house they squatted in with plywood, and drawing immature graffiti on it to scare anyone of who would want to challenge their right to be there. He thought of running away from shouting shop owners with a crate of veer between them, and dancing into oblivion and until the sun came up. It was the same feeling of _us against the world_ , the same exhilarating feeling of not being scared anymore because they were together. It was there again, just under the surface, ready to break free.

_I should have known then. Even then._

The thought made him sad, so sad he almost choked on it when they entered the elevator to his flat, unshed tears burning in the corners of his eyes.

_ Why the fuck can’t I stop crying lately. _

“Rich.” Till ran his hand over his back while he unlocked the door, a soothing gesture, as if he was stroking a distressed puppy, again picking up on his mood way too easily.

Richard kicked of his boots and leaned against the wall, tired to the bone and aching while he waited for Till to do the same. They were very close, because there wasn’t any space in his tiny hallway.

“Till, we wasted so much time”, Richard whispered miserably. Till didn’t say anything to that, but touched his cheek for a moment so he could lean into his hand. 

——-

They ended up on the couch together after Richard had taken a hot shower, where he pressed his forehead against the cool tiles while he let the warm water beat the knots out of his back and some of the shame out of his mind. Till had seen worse of him. He wouldn’t run, it was fine, it was fine, it was fine.

It was easier when Till pulled him down on to his lap and held him tight. Richard wanted to protest, he was too heavy surely, but then he remembered that Till was strong, this was supposed to be _effortless_ , and doing this was exactly what he had wanted. They were facing each other, Richards knees left and right of Till’s legs and their cheeks pressed together and they spend a while like that, just holding each other. Richard thought he wanted to fall asleep, because it felt like the perfect oblivion, but since he didn’t want to miss out on it either he just rested his head and rode the low wave of Till’s breathing.

“You remember that day in Spain?” Till finally broke the silence.

“Hmm.” Richard closed his eyes. He didn’t like to remember that day when they had fallen apart. It still hurt.

“I still think ... “ Till paused. His voice was just a soft murmer now. “I still think of your weight on top of me like this.”

Oh.

Well.

“You said you think of me. When you’re with other people.” Till’s mouth was right there, close to his nose, so Richard placed a soft kiss at it’s corners. He could feel his own heartbeat in his throat all of a sudden.

“Yeah.”Till looked down, collapsing a little inward and avoiding him. “I’m sorry. That’s fucked up, isn’t it.”

Richard didn’t particularly think it was. Objectively, maybe, projecting like that maybe wasn’t what regular people thought of as healthy, maybe someone else would have been creeped out by it, but he didn’t feel bothered by it like that. It just felt like something Till would do, and let grow into a bigger hell in his mind than maybe necessary. Just a bit of humanity, thinking of someone else during sex, _big deal_. Seeking it out? _Maybe_ a bigger deal, but still inside the realm of common human greed. He didn’t think Till would have mislead someone, or hurt someone, so what was the problem? Richard had liked hearing it, even then when Till had only confessed it to drive him away. It was scary, because it meant he had to live up to a fantasy, but it was flattering mostly, and it carried the bitter taste of jealousy, just a hint on the tip of his tongue, just enough to make him daring.

“I don’t like someone else taking my place in your mind,” he whispered, not really able to say it more loudly.

Till looked up at him then, and just like that the atmosphere changed. Richard thought he could see the exact moment when they both went from comfortable and a little confessional to feverish reflected in his partners eyes. They went glassy and lost focus and then they were on to each other, shaking hands gripping into strands of black hair and rough fingers searching for skin under cotton shirts that suddenly seemed stupidly impractical to get out of. 

Any what-ifs and fumbling awkwardness disappeared, burnt up by the heat pouring thick and sweet from Richard’s stomach into his legs, and he went after the taste of Till’s mouth like it was the last thing that could sustain him before he would starve, and he got lost in the sensation of Till biting his lower lip until it was tender and swollen and let his mouth run over his neck when they broke apart to get more air. They were evaporating between hot breath and trembling limbs, and Richard thought he was falling through the deafening sound of blood pumping and Till’s sea air scent.

”Tell me about it,” he demanded, out of breath between kissing Till and letting his fingers run over his stubbled cheeks. He loved the sensation, the sensuality of the roughness against his palm, the rhythm between soft skin and masculine gruff.

“What do you think, when you think about me,” he mumbled it against Till’s lips, unable to leave his skin, unable to let the question go even if it didn’t even seem to matter anymore, because they were descending into want and need anyway, and nothing Till could say would change that now.

Till shook his head, and kept kissing his neck, hard and desperate. “I love you, Richard” he murmured, like it was still a secret, and Richards heart had the sense to stumble at that so he paused to catch his breath, and really look.

Till’s face was flushed and sweet, bottom lip trembling and eyes half closed, and he looked so vulnerable in his desire it took his breath away.

_I love you, too._ “You’re beautiful,” he said instead dumbly, a little stunned, “ _god_ , you’re beautiful.”

Till shook his head and dropped his hands to his hips, thumbs running over the hem of his sweatpants, just like back in that hotel room on tour. He was breathing shakily and Richard turned his hips, just a little, searching for a bit of friction between them, wanting to hear Till’s breath catch more, like it had last night, and maybe break him out of his shell.

“Please, tell me.”

Till shook his head again, stronger this time, shoulders tense. He brought his hands up Richard’s naked back, over his shoulders, on to his chest in a slow and deliberate caress. The adoration in his face was palpable, real, and Richard didn’t want to press him anymore, only get closer to him and bask in being wanted like this, and to hell with the details, only ...

“I don’t think. I _don’t want_ to think. I just let them fuck me raw until there’s no thought left. It... I can be passive like that, don’t have to concentrate on them, if they know that’s all I want. I just want to feel. Feel ... you. Only of course... I never do.”

Till whispered the last bit, and squeezed his eyes shut, obviously scared of whatever reaction he would get.

Richard touched his lips. They were velvety and smooth under his fingertips, darker than usual and plumb from kissing. Everything was quiet now, he felt, calm even, only their hearts beating and lungs pumping air. Till’s lips parted slightly under his touch, and he dared to push two fingers gently into his mouth, feeling after the soft, wet warmth.

“I want to do that for you,” he decided, his voice hoarse with need and trepidation. 

He couldn’t remember later, how he’d became the one that ended up sitting on the sofa after all. Till hovered over him, leaning on one arm agains the rest next to his head, running a shaking hand over his chest and then down to push his boxers off over his hips. It brought a small relief at least, even if Till’s knuckles brushing his pubic hairs as if on accident was torture on it’s own. There’d been a piercing moment of reality, between their desperate groping, when Till had asked him if he had any lube and Richard felt the embarrassment and shame creep up on him when he shook his head. But it didn’t matter, Till said, and Richard wanted to believe him so he didn’t question it. He _should_ have questioned it, he thought panicked, when Till kissed his way down, first his chest, then his belly, and then right at the base of his shaft and Richard realised too late what he was about to do to protest in time.

Part of him thought he should protest, should tell Till he didn’t need to do that, but that voice was drowned out by the perfect bliss of Till’s hot, slick, mouth on him and his tongue massaging his most sensitive nerves ending in a bewitching dance. It was torture of the sweetest kind, being suspended like that between wanting to let go, because liberation from earthly restraints seemed so temptingly close, and the terrible fear of hurting this man that was kneeling in front of him and made himself choke while he looked up at him with those liquid, beachglass eyes. Richard was thankful Till’s hands were still there too, pinning his hips in Place and keeping him still.

Richard thought he was about to tumble and fall for real, but then Till let go of him, coughing a little and clumsily discarded his own pants with total disregard before he took his wrist and dragged him down on to the floor with him.

_Good thing I have a soft carpet_ , Richard thought amused, in a last moment of nonsensical clarity, and then they were kissing again. He could taste himself in Till’s mouth, he thought, a small and fleeting hint of bitterness. And _honestly, I would be fine with concrete too_.

“Just go slow,” Till told him, when he grabbed at his hips and guided him between his legs. “It’ll be tight for you, too.” He sounded weirdly matter of fact, like he was speaking from far away although their noses were touching, and his eyes were so hazy they almost looked milky. Richard could feel the whole man quivering beneath him.

It was an overwhelming rush of power that took him the moment he pushed into Till’s burning hot body, so so slow because it _was_ difficult before the resistance faded quickly. This is what flying must be like, of course being on top of the world felt just like this. It was seeing what he could _do_ to Till, the man that had always felt like such a rock solid and stable aid to him, that took his breath and filled him up with a gratitude that made his heart double in size. Seeing Till’s face become undone in a way he’d never thought possible, a soft and blissful release that finally loosened up that jaw and made Till look so young again - and knowing it was _him_ who _caused_ it - it was all he needed to grow wings.

They found a slow, deliberate rhythm quickly, and with an ease that by all counts should have been unrealistic or take more time, as far as Richard was concerned anyway. Till made small, deep and guttaral sounds in the back of his throat that resonated through them both, mouth to mouth as they were. Richard felt like he could just as well have made the same ones, or maybe he already was and just couldn’t tell the difference between them anymore.

He came a little too early, finally tumbling and spilling out of the honey sweet pain of physical yearning straight into the brutal sharpness of hypersensitivity. He flinched through it, and kept going for Till’s sake, even when he thought he couldn’t bare it a second longer, one hand uncoordinatedly stroking Till’s thick, velvety erection, until he finally found release too in a whimpering agonized groan.

Then Till was crying in his arms.

He was heaving with strangled, painful sobs that shook his entire body and made his strong shoulders feel fragile under Richard’s touch. His face was wet with tears.

For a long and very scary second Richard thought he had gotten something utterly and _terribly_ wrong - but then Till clung to him, painfully digging his hands into his shoulders, and he thought his heart was breaking all over again. Here it was, the pain of so many years spread out before him, finally finding an outlet, and he hadn’t seen it, and now that he did, part of him wished he never would have had to.

Richard petted his hair and told Till every sweet and nonsensical thing he could think of, some of which he hardly believed himself, like that he never had to be sad again, and everything was well now. He told him “honey please don’t cry”, because it seemed a very reasonable thing to say, and Till wasn’t really listening anyway. He told him he’d never let him get hurt again and that he shouldn’t worry now and kissed the tears away as well as he could and until they stopped coming.

It cost him every last bit of energy he still had and by the time they were cozied up between blankets and with some action movie none of them paied any attention to, he had nothing left to give.

“Richard ... “ Till’s voice was rough from crying.

“Hmm.”

“I love you.”

He was already drifting into darkness, but that tugged on his brain, like something _really important_ he had to take care of _urgently_. 

“I’m gonna have to remember to say it back,” he mumbled into Till’s hair. “Remind me, will you? You know how I forget these things.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never thought I’d write a chapter like this. But it felt right for them, and maybe we all needed it. I hope you like it as much as me.


	16. Endorphin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Till is confronted with love in real life.
> 
> Heads up: In the words of the maestro him self, erotic mind you, not pornographic, at least I hope so, I tried etc. etc.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello.
> 
> I’m so sorry this took forever.  
> This is getting harder and harder to write. Not because I don’t know how it’s supposed to go, but when I started this I thought I would only do it for myself, and that if I’d get like 20 kudos that would be kinda cool.
> 
> Now there’s over 200 of you. I honestly don’t get it. You’re all crazy. I love you, but you are actually crazy. Thank you, to everyone commenting, silently reading, never leaving anything at all. Thank you, for caring about this story.
> 
> It also means I’ve gotten a bit more conscious about not wanting to dissappoint anyone. It’s actually scary. At the end if the day, I can only write the way I think it’s supposed to go and hope for the best.
> 
> To the people that wanted different things along any of this I am still sorry. Thank you for reading anyway.

  
  
As far as Till could tell after a week of being in New York, Richard lived in a bubble of his own making, nestled into a as of yet unrenovated brownstone in SoHo and clocked into his own rhythm like the rest of the world only existed when it suited him. It was only ever opened up to an eclectic circle of artisan and musician friends that he sometimes met at night or at some gallery opening, and then left behind again, elusive and as easily bored as ever.

Till was surprised, when he realised how much more isolated Richard was than he had thought, and worried too. “I don’t want you to be lonely,” he’d told him on one of their late night walks through Brooklyn Heights, with Richard playing at being a halfhearted tourist guide again. He’d shrugged and lit his cigarette with a wistful little smile. _I’m always lonely_ , it seemed to say.

Till had taken his hand and put it in his pocket and had stored the memory of that little smile alongside all the other little things he wanted to enshrine and hold on to, if only to figure out how to erase that loneliness.

“I’m free,” Richard said instead, “I can play as much music as I like and nobody tells me how to do it.”

A freedom, Till thought more and more, that he was already starting to edge in on and compromise. Richard had welcomed him into his little bubble where no one imposed on him and his music unless he wanted them too, and he tried his best to be accommodating, but Till didn’t miss how much effort it took him to tear away from his guitar to spend time with him.

His new favourite thing in the world was bringing Richard his afternoon coffee while he was playing guitar in his little studio. He loved seeing him light up with excitement over something so small, and he loved the way he was looking up at him as he stopped playing. It was always the same - that sheepish little smile, and then the sharp inhale before he would fall into his apologetic rant for yet again turning “just a little bit” into several hours, as if Till hadn’t known from the beginning that it would pan out this way.

It was a stretch ... balancing between this absolute bliss of being together and the conviction that soon, way too soon, Richard would be bored of him, tired of having him impose on his independence. Till was a change to his life, one that took away from his time, his privacy, his space. Or wasn’t he?

And so, despite that moment being the highlight of his day, and because Till hated seeing Richard apologize for something that made him so obviously happy, he postponed it an hour or so each day.

Till didn’t really mind, of course. It was good, seeing Richard getting lost in whatever it was that he was doing. He was happy to listen to the muffled, somehow soothing sounds coming out of the isolated part of the flat that Richard had turned into a full blown studio. It looked expensive, with a big mixer, rows of amp heads and acoustic panelling, and there were stacks of harddrives full of melodies.

—-

“What are you gonna do with all of that?” Till had asked, the first time Richard had asked him to look at it all. He’d just shrugged, and looked away, and Till had sensed his turmoil in the way he tried to distract him with listing everything he’d done to the place. This was more than they could ever work on with Rammstein in a few lifetimes, and the thought of Richard hiding away all those songs and ideas and parts of him on those cold pieces of hardware made him sad.

“You should go ahead and do something with it,” he’d tried to encourage him. “Yeah, right,” Richard had said sarcastically, “I’m sure that would go down amazingly well with the boys.” 

“But you already thought of another band. That’s not a secret?” Till had tried to argue, astonished.

“Yeah, but they don’t think I’d actually do it. If they did, they’d be all over it and rip it apart.”

Till had winced at that - at the clear expectation of being shut down and the open wound he sensed under the words said so dismissivly, with a casual wave of a hand.

“You can’t know that until you try...” 

“I don’t think it’s worth the risk of destroying everything else,” Rich had said in a final tone, and Till hadn’t asked about it again but was resolute that the last word on that hadn’t been spoken yet.

—-

Till put down the steaming mug on the table, careful to put it out of reach of the control board just in case someone would knock it over, and took Richard’s hands in his to knead and massage them until the cramped up muscles were soft and relaxed again. He kissed his palms, and they smelled of lemon oil like the wood polish he used on his fretboards, and it became one of those many little details Till wanted to lock up and not ever share with anyone else. Richard’s tilted head, the concentrated look in his eyes and his happiness as he looked up at him was an image he wanted to keep at all costs. He wanted to contain all of these moments, record them in some way to play them back, over and over and over again. If this was the peak of love he got to experience, he’d still count himself lucky. That smile, those fingers between his, the permission to kiss that cheekbone jutting out sharply and making stupid jokes full of innuendo - without having to hide what they did to him.

“I’m sorry,” Richard said, “I lost track of time again, didn’t I? What do you want to do later?”

“Choke on your cock again, preferably,” Till deadpanned, and smiled to himself as he watched Richard make up his mind about wether he would be indignant over the crudeness or flattered at the unconcealed truth of it or just amused. He settled on throwing his pick at him and rolling his eyes, but the blush on his cheeks belied his exasperation. Till put the pick into his pocket for keepsake - or to smuggle it back into Richards hands at the next opportunity when he lost his mind over losing picks again.

“Fuck you.”

“Yes, fuck me. You always say that, and then when I want to take you up on it it’s just a manner of speech.”

“I do let you take me up on it.”

“Yeah, but your timing is a little ...“ Till turned his hand back and forth ironically.

Richard shot him a dark look - but it was full of amusement and full of promise.

“According to this,” he pointed at the screen in front of him, “my timing is excellent.”

Till raised his hands, signaling that he was giving up, and they grinned at each other like stupid boys that hadn’t learned how shitty life could be yet. It made Till’s stomach flutter with happiness.

“I just had to fix this drumtrack before I can record this new thing I have, and I just need to record this once now so I’m not forgetting it, and then we should go out or something later ... Ok?”

“Just once, hmm,” Till mocked him, and Richard winced.

“I am sorry,” he mouthed. Till bowed and kissed his cheek, finally. It was warm and smooth agains his lips, and softer than it looked.

“I don’t mind, you know” he promised, already regretting his teasing. 

“You’d be the first” mumbled Richard skeptically, but they had been through thisexact argument a number of times now, and he knew better than to dispute it.

“Don’t let your coffee get cold again,” Till reminded him gently, already half way out of the room. He had an empty notebook waiting for him, and the prospect of later was quite enough for now.

“I won’t,” Richard promised and reached for his cup. “Thank you. I love you.” His eyes were already back and fixed on his screens, frowning at his drum tracks..  
  


.... and Till’s heart was beating out of his chest. He could hear the blood rushing, feel his chest tighten, and through it all, there was Richard’d profile, bent over his guitar, so in his element, so much himself. The room was spinning. 

He’d seen him struggle to say it for days now, ever since that afternoon, and he’d hated the wiff of obligation it had carried, like Richard had only wanted to say it because he felt he had to, not because he meant it. He’d fallen silent and self conscious in moments of intimacy, seemingly struggling with something he wanted to say, or when Till had whispered his love into his ear, until eventually Till had stopped doing that, because he didn’t want to add pressure on him. _Remind me_ Richard had asked, in a moment of complete vulnerability, but Till obviously wasn’t about to do that. It wasn’t a chore, was it? It shouldn’t be. 

And now he’d said it. Just like that, and it was like someone had sucked all the air out of the room.

“What?” Richard asked and looked back at him, irritated by Till still standing there like a pillar of salt in the middle of the room and staring at him.

Then he realised what he’d said.

“Oh.” He blushed. Delightful red spots started to bloom like poppies on his cheek and he ducked his head. 

“Stop looking at me like that. You already knew I do,” he murmured at his knees, and wiped his hands on his jeans. He was shifting uncomfortably in his office chair. 

“What, I can’t like hearing it?” Till forced himself to say, hoping it was something Richard would want to hear. He seemed to be on the right track, because he was smiling, and Till went back two steps to be able to take his face in his hands. He kissed him once, firmly, savoring Richard’s soft lips, his tender embarassment, and the heat sneaking into the kiss, like a hint of chili into hot chocolate. 

He managed to ignore the way his accelerated heartbeat made him dizzy and ill, at least for the moment.

“Finnish that recording of yours, ok.” He said hoarsly, and kissed his cheek once more before he left him behind, hands folded over his guitar and looking after him with a slightly puzzled expression.

Till went into the living room, and opened the window. The air rushing in wasn’t particularly fresh, just cold city smog, but he needed it open anyway. He stole one of Richard’s cigarettes from the coffee table and lit it with shaking hands.

If anything, Till had just waited for him to blurt it out in the middle of a make out session, when he was rendered completely out of control and emotional, the way people just did sometimes. After an orgasm, when endorphins ran rampant anyway, or before, when he was begging for one. But he hadn’t. He’d done it in the midst of his meddling around, when he was as far from being sentimental as he got, while analysing and programming a fucking drum track with mathematical precision.

He’d meant it.

Maybe that was the biggest shock. He’d said it so casually, so unplanned, so naturally, Till couldn’t help but believe him. Believe him that _he_ believed it, in any case. Blurting it out like that, subconsciously and in the middle of something else was so Richard, _his Richard_ , it made it true. His Richard, who hated getting flowers because that was so ordinary, who wanted romance of a different kind because he always wanted something no one else had, something Till still couldn’t completely grasp or understand what exactly it was that he wanted. Perfectionist Richard, who undoubtedly hadn’t planned it like this, but who wore his heart on his sleeve and just couldn’t quite help it sometimes.

“Are you ok?”

And now he’d come after him, concern in his voice and lines of worry around his mouth.

“Hmm.” Till agreed, and leaned out of the window to exhale cigarette smoke and to turn away from Richard’s inquisitive eyes. He could see him without seeing him, hands in his pockets, hair disheveled, barefoot. Fuck.

“You don’t look ok.”

“Hmm.”

Till heard naked feet approaching, softly on the cloudy silver carpet, and then he was there, wrapping his arms around his waist and heavily leaning against him. Till put a hand over Richards folded ones, tracing after his knuckles and long fingers and didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything to say, and he was glad he at least didn’t have to explain.

“I wish I could make you believe in us,” Richard said softly after a while, after he’d finnised his cigarette and Richard had taken one too. Till had added his second hand on his stomach and entwined their fingers.

“Hmm,” Till repeated again, vaguely.

Richard stepped away, dragging Till with him. “Come,” he said, and his voice sounded odd, rough with emotion.

“What about your track?”

“It can wait.”

“You’ll forget the melody.”

Richard shrugged.

“There’ll be more.”

Till wanted to protest, but he couldn’t. 

—-

Richard was an overly generous lover, sensitive and empathetic, who astonished him again and again with a sensuality that bordered on too sweet or too reverent. He almost seemed to print his heart on Till’s skin with the way he touched him, kissed him, and only sometimes, when he got into his head too much, confused with the newness of it, he seemed capable of being afraid at all.

Till sometimes thought that maybe they’d rushed into this too quickly, that all too soon they would have nothing left to progress to anymore, speeding towards an inevitable point of no return where they had to figure this out for real or finally fail. Sometimes, he knew, they were replacing conversations they should by all means be having with sex, like they did now, because every time words failed them, they were suddenly clinging on to each other with a heated and hungry desperation.

Till knew there should be other ways to tellRichard how much hearing that had shaken him. There should be other ways to tell him that he was sorry for still doubting him regardless, than pressing him against the nearest wall and kissing him until they were both gasping for air. He should be able to voice his absolute terror at the thought of losing him with an alternative to falling on to his knees in front of him. Instead, he resorted to worshipping Richard’s body until he came hot, thick, and painfully all consuming into his throat, knees shaking and knuckles white from gripping the table too hard.

Till wanted to tell him, that now that he owned his love, losing it again became a possibility beyond a hypothetical and that it made his hands shake and his heart beat and his mind too full of pitch black thoughts. He wanted to say that he felt like he couldn’t let Richard know, because Richard deserved to believe in this love, at least for now, and shouldn’t have it questioned or doubted again.

They should have been _talking_ , he knew that.

But then Richard crawled into bed with him, his lips tasting sweet from his diet coke and bitter from his cigarettes, and grabbed at him for more with an unabashed hunger and struggeling to speak himself, and it felt dumb to postpone something they both wanted so badly. Till drowned in a sea of want and yearning, the salty metallic taste of lust always on the tip of his tongue now, and Richard did everything to completely obliterate his ability to stop and think clearly. 

—-

Eventually, he ended up breathless, returning to reality slowly, heartbeat by heartbeat and with great reluctance. He rather hoped his destiny was to stay like this, until the end of time, limbs turned to soft rubber, lungs filled with sticky, lovesick goo.

He was pressed into the mattress, Richard pliant and heavy on top of him, and his gasping for air had a weakened, wheezing quality to it, completely spent. Tills hand had landed on the small of his back, in the curve over his ass in a pool of sweat. They’d be getting cold soon, Till thought lazily, the breeze coming through the slightly ajar door had already turned Richard’s smooth skin into goose flesh. He’d start shivering any minute now, Till knew, and he wanted to reach for the blanket they had moved aside earlier, but his arm weighed a ton still, and he thought he could always still do it later.

It wasn’t warm today quite yet, and the open window in the living room was enough to carry in the cold. Outside, traffic was still humming, cars honking and police sirens passing by despite (or because of) the emerging evening, and it seemed to amplify the quiet calm that started to settle over them, the kind that he knew so well and that only followed utter physical extortion.

Richard was worse. Which was no wonder, seeing as he’d done most of the work, fucking him into absolute oblivion with slow and deliberate movements. Till almost loathed when he did that, scared by how he could feel the adoration in that most intimate intrusion. It was too kind, too gentle, like his heart was receiving a hammering instead of his ass, and it confused him and ripped him open in a way he increasingly deemed impossible to ever fix again.

Oh, Till feared it, the terrifying openness of it, and yet he craved it with the feverish need of an addict. In the moment, he wanted to curse and spit and make Richard fuck him harder, although all that ever left his mouth were pathetic, whimpering pleas that the man bending over him silenced with his kisses, warm and soft and soothing, so soothing he managed to bear it somehow, although how he couldn’t understand, because the torture of wanting to feel more, and more, _and more_ , was so all consuming.

With time, however, Richard always turned out to be right, of course, and that soft, gentle slowness turned into a caress that set his nerves on fire with hypersensitivity. All other sensations seemed to fade, leaving nothing but the burning sensation of skin against skin and Richard’s dick pressing into him, feeling like it took up more and more space, in his vision, his body, his mind. He couldn’t tear himself away from watching the muscles flex and fold under that pale beautiful skin, and he couldn’t look away from Richard’s hand between them, curled around his cock, just one more thing adding to the onslaught of tactilities that were driving him into insanity. Richard’s fingers were spaced out a litttle, thumb bend over his head in an oddly elegant way, less like a fist and more reminiscent of the way the same hand usually settled on a chord and found those delicately arched positions on the the neck of a guitar. Even Richard’s breath against his ear, that should feel cool by all means between all of this fire, became torment, adding to all the sensations that piled up until they turned into a whole mountain of want and need, and _more, please, more._

Eventually, he was so full of it, full of sensation, full of yearning, full of hard, smooth flesh, it left no room for anything else. No other emotion but need, no other thought than yet another _god Richard please never stop_ although he didn’t think of god in any capacity under normal circumstances. It filled him up, all the dark nooks and crannies inside of him closing up with the liquid fire of love mixed with desire, until he was so full with it all he wanted was to find release.

Richard didn’t give it to him.

He seemed determined to make him burst and come apart at the seams, which made very little sense to Till’s compromised brain, because what use would he get out of _that_ , and besides, he seemed to be tormented himself, what with him squeezing his eyes shut and biting his lips and his trembling muscles each time he stopped at the last second before Till could hit that high end before the rush.

_Please, give it to me, you need it too, why would you torture me so if it only tortures yourself_ , Till wanted to yell at him, but he couldn’t talk anymore at that point and just struggled a bit senselessly, to urge him to please, just _please_ keep moving. He had no success, because Richard had one-upped him half and hour ago and wasn’t about to let go now, and for once in his life he felt like he’d actually had to put up a real struggle to toppel someone - and might yet lose.

And _damn you, Richard, damn you, damn you to fucking hell_ his mind screamed, the next time Richard held himself back and stopped moving, breathing into his mouth with a pitiful whimper but showing no sign of giving up.

“Rich, please”, he finally managed to squeeze out, and maybe that’s all this miraculous creature had been waiting for, or maybe he’d just finally reached his own limit of what he could endure, but finally, _fucking finally_ , he let him have it. He let go, his deliberate movemnts turning into spasms quickly, and then they were falling together and the rush came fast and painfully and all consuming and that’s how they had ended up shattered like this on this bed.

Richard had all but collapsed on top of him, semen glueing them together, and now he indeed started to shiver under the soft breeze. Till mobilised his very last bit of physical prowess to roll them both to the side and drape Richards soft blanket over them both.

The same person who’d just exercised an iron will over him, mastering his own desire with what seemed like unreal discipline to Till, now seemed small and soft in his arms, vulnerability bordering on sadness, so he cradled Richard’s head and buried his fongertips inside his hair. It was softer than usual, finally free of any styling products in the privacy of his home.

  
“God, what are you doing to me” he whispered, still a bit shook from the intensity of what had just happened between them.

Richard blinked, struggling to open his eyes. Till didn’t know if it was the exhaustion or the unshed tears glueing his lashes together, but it made for the glitter in his eyes seeming even more intense once he managed it.

“Proving you wrong, hopefully” he whispered.

Till let his fingers trace Richard’s brows, down the bridge of his nose, feeling after the shape of his sculpted cheeks and touched the butterfly softness of his lips, before he cupped his hand around his cheeks and curled his fingers around his ears and stroked them, just like he knew Richard liked it.

“I’m not succeeding, am I. I can see it when you look at me.”

“Rich ...”

Richard sighed and entangled their legs. He pressed his face in Till’s chest and settled into the position that he always took now, and where Till couldn’t understand how he managed to sleep that way at all.

“I just wish you’d believe in us,” he mumbled resignedly. It resonated against Till’s wet skin. “Good night, love”

”Good night, Richard” Till whispered back, at a loss. He didn’t know how to meet the forlorn expression he seemingly had caused.

It was a scary, confusing and utterly haunting realization that came to him with a start. Richard was shivering in his arms, still fighting for air after just having made everything about him.

Richard was fighting for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @struwwelzeter is my tumblr. Please say hi.


	17. Labyrinth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Till needs to have a proper think about things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am terribly sorry it took so long. It was one of those parts connecting chapters I struggle with a lot.

The moment when Richard finally started to lose his patience came quietly and without any anger.

Till would have thought it would be loud. A smattering of a plate. A screeching amp from a purposefully caused feedback. Rage spat in his face.

Instead it was silent, just muscles being a bit too tight under his fingertips and a voice that was a bit too toneless.

“It was just a question, Till.”

Was it?

They were on the couch, sprawled wide after eating too much, and laughing too much, and not paying any attention to the movie Richard had picked. Till had his feet up on the coffee table, which had almost resulted in their beer bottles’ stale remains spilling down on the carpet three times already, but it didn’t motivate either of them to get up and move them away.

Richard leaned against him, back pressed against his side, legs drawn up and against the back of the sofa. Till had his arm wrapped around his chest, and just a minute ago Richard’s fingertips had still moved along it, back and forth and featherlight. An endless caress, subconsciously given while they were still giggling about that time in Puerto Rico when Paul and a Bucket of Sangria had led to them almost missing a plane, miss a good quarter of their setlist and Flake being very worried that his bandmate might have infectious food poisoning.

“Speaking of planes, when are you going back home?”

A simple sentence, still said with a voice full of laughter, and yet Till couldn’t help but feel that he was asked to leave. 

“I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it yet,” he said after a pause. He knew it came out all wrong, defensive and hurt.

And now Richard had become so still, and the room was full of that kind of silence where you could hear clocks ticking despite the TV still running a programme on the eating habits of arctic foxes.

“It really was just a question,” Richard finally said after a stretched moment of silence, and got up from the couch.

“I don’t mind you being here at all if that’s what you’re worried about.”

His tone was forcefully mild, he was clearly making a point of trying to keep the peace. It did little to ease Till’s mind.

“I don’t worry that you mind,” he lied quietly, and stared at his knees. He felt bereft, the suddenly cold spot at his side twisting into his gut. He _didn’t_ , technically. He just worried that he didn’t mind terribly much if he left either. Richard stood and looked down on him, hand’s slight turned upwards in an apologetic gesture. Till found it impossible to meet his eyes.

“Then what _do_ you worry about?”

When Till didn’t answer right away, Richard sighed and finally took up the bottles to carry them into the kitchen. Till stared at his back for a few moments, listened after the slightly impatient rhythm of Richard’s step and felt unable to move. This was slipping away from him, out of his control, and he had no idea how to keep it from slipping further. He only knew he absolutely had to try.

“I don’t ... I, Richard ...” he tried to start to speak in the hope that he would magically form a sentence out of nothing, and scrambled to get up and jog into the kitchen. No sentence came, naturally.

“I love you.” That was lame manipulation and Till knew as much himself. It was shocking, how much he could really lose all sense of decency at the prospect of being in the way. Shocking, and just as scary as the issue itself.

Richard bowed over the dishwasher and took his time to put some dishes away before he closed it and slowly turned around. He leaned back against the counter top, with his hands behind his back and returned Till’s desperate staring with a guarded, unreadable look. His skin was pale under the bright halogen lights at the ceiling, his hair and eyes alot darker than usually. He looked very much immune to manipulation.

“I really try, Till. I do everything I can to make you feel welcome here, and I’m sorry that I... I mean I know I can get very distracted. I can try and spend more time with you, if that helps. But I really was just asking for you.” He took a deep breath, and crossed his arms in front of him. “I want you here, but I don’t think it’s very interesting for you to be here, and I thought you still wanted some nature time before we go back on the road. That’s all.” He finished and dropped his eyes at his feet.

“No, no. I don’t ... “ Till tore at his hair. This was all very much not what he wanted at all, and he cursed his inability to put it in his words. He knew what he wanted. He wanted a hug and reassurance and he wanted this to be over as quick as it had started and forget about it as soon as possible. He god damn knew, he just couldn’t say, too scared of the reaction he might get.

“I don’t want you to spend more time with me.” _Oh god no._ “I mean, I _do!!!!_ Of course I do!! Just ... I don’t want to inconvenience you. If you need more time by yourself that’s fine, I can find other things to do, I can just ... it’s ok if you need more time...”

_ Just please don’t send me away. _

Richard shook his head mutely, and it emphasized the way his hair stood up backwards from his head. 

“ _Damn it_ , Till,” he suddenly blurted, impatience finally breaking free and dropped his arms. “If I actually did that, you’d worry too. You’d feel even more like an inconvenience and like I don’t want you here and mope around in silence and I’d feel awful. If I spend more time with you, you think I want to get rid of you because you’re taking too much, and if I spend less time with you, you think I don’t want to be with you.” He threw up his hands up in frustration. “How about you give me some wriggle room to do the right thing here and try to believe I only asked because sometimes people have to plan their lives a little.”

Till snapped his mouth shut. His mind was blank, rendered fully incompetent by the perfect argument and the way it sounded so right it could only feel wrong. It was so unbeatable in it’s logic. And it _hurt_. To win time, he stared back into Richard’s dark, glittering eyes.

He was breathtakingly beautiful. As much as Till hated to be at the receiving end of his displeasure, he couldn’t escape the appeal of the way Richard always became more beautiful when he wore his heart on his sleeve. His anger pulled back the layers of fluctuating control and carefully guarded emotions and revealed someone so much more alive and vibrant. It was easy to see he’d been walking on eggshells before.

“I think I need some air,” Till blurted out, suddenly ladden with guilt. 

Richards shoulders sagged in obvious disappointment, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. Till could follow his retraction, how he drew back and fought down his frustration in real time, and suddenly desperately wanted him to never have to hide any emotion from him ever again.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

_ Of course I do, you little fool. _

Till shook his head. He really should manage to be on his own for just a little bit.

“No, I’ll be ok. I think I just need to think for a few minutes.”

Richard nodded halfheartedly, his eyes turned back to the floor and worrying at his lower lip. He looked unconvinced - and not half as sure of him self as just a few seconds ago.

“I’m sorry,” Till tried to reassure him. “It’s, you’re right, and I ... I just need to think about it.”

Richard came after him into the hallway and watched him get into his boots, hugging himself. He still looked worried, but seemingly had resigned to wait and be patient.

“Don’t stay too long,” he said quitely once Till had gotten into his jacket too.

“Of course not.”

They looked at each other for a moment and then Richard threw his arm around Tills neck, suddenly pressing close. His breath hit his neck and tickled, and Till had a moment of regretting his decision and wanting to stay instead, perhaps go back to cuddle on the couch.

“I love you, too.”

Richard let go and turned, walking back into the apartment head down and without a second glance. 

—-

The city outside hit him with cold air, noise, and dirt. It felt good, getting outside and stretching his legs, but he still suddenly painfully missed the trees and green surrounding the lakes back home. Till closed his cloak against a barely-there drizzle of rain and started to walk down the road. If he remembered correctly, there was a small patch of park if he kept straight ahead, and if there was anything he wanted right now, it was a space to think, preferably somewehere with less people and less cars. This place was so much. So hectic and stressful.

Richard was here though. And he was, if not happy, at least content here, that much was obvious.

Richard, Richard, Richard.

He could understand his frustration. This endless fight and endless strain was exhausting. Too intense. Too much love, too much struggle to express that love. He’d never experienced something like that. The way each touch suddenly seemed to hold so much significance, like discovering something precious each time, that always threatened to evaporate. Each sentence holding so much power, both to fix them and to destroy them. It felt addictive, the way Richard kissed him as if the world could end any second. Beautiful beyond belief, the perfect bliss, but addictive. And addiction was poisonous. It had already almost destroyed everything once before.

Till searched his coat for a cigarette, grateful he found a half squashed one in his chest pocket. A middle aged chatty man with a horrible goatee lit it for him. Till had to explain that he was german, worked in entertainment, and yes he had kids, before he was sent on his way.

The nicotine calmed him somewhat and the smell reminded him of Richard. He missed him. Already.

He couldn’t even take a damn walk around the block without that damn ache in his bones, that deep longing that only ever really seemed to be dulled whenever Richard whispered love into his ear or fucked him until he couldn’t think. It was stupid. And most of all, unsustainable.

He almost missed the old days. _Not really_ , of course, because that had been hell too. All the nights tearing up over the man he thought he’d never have. All the ruined relationships he could never quite commit to because they were all just a hollow plan b. The fruitless jealousy, the dumb, self destructive distraction. All the countless things he had done only to feel anything but that hopeless, unrequited love.

But there had been so much good, too. The easy conversations, because Richard was oblivious. The way he casually jumped him in the middle of the night, knocking on his hotel door with a frown and some sleep deprived, street-philosophic theory he needed to discuss before they fell asleep in the same bed. The shared scowls at anyone who’d stood in their way, only to burst into laughter as soon as they were out of sight.

That was all gone now too. And Till wondered where it had gone. _When_ it had gone. That day in Berlin, when he’d turned down Richard’s kiss? When he’d rejected him in the middle of a world tour?

No, he didn’t think so.

It had gone the day Richard had made a huge decision without him. Without even a tiny, minute consultation. Loving him from afar had been bearable before, because they had still shared a life. They had belonged together, even then. The way Richard had stopped sharing his life was what had broken his heart.

Till realized with a start that that was all he wanted. Share a life. Be the best of friends. Them against everyone. He wanted to go home, safe in the knowledge that of course they belonged together and that their kisses would still be the same as soon as they saw each other again. From everything he’d said, Richard wanted the same. So why couldn’t they just do that?

He couldn’t blame Richard for leaving anymore. It made so much sense, in retrospective. Richard had given everything he had, to the band, to the music, to all of them. So much, it had cost him his health, and his sanity, only to hear that they didn’t even want to get that much. They had collectively rejected him. Till often tried to tell himself that he hadn’t, but he hadn’t exactly been in a position to really help either, and so he’d just not done anything. Richard had been completely on his own. He  winced when he imagined how lonely that must have been. 

Shouldn’t the park be close by now?

Till thought of how Richard had joined him in silence and sat with him before going on stage, way back when it had still been so scary and too embarrassing to voice his fear. It made him remember how Richard had come into Till’s workshop, ages ago, and left new tapes for him besides his dusted cassette player under the pretense he needed money that he took out of Till’s coin deposit. Tapew he’d swapped with who knew who for who knew what, every time Till had come back from his fathers house with Ice in his stomach. Maybe his support had always been this quiet, this easy to overlook and casual and maybe it was unfair to expect him to know how much it all had meant. Richard said he’d taken him for granted. Maybe Till had taken him for granted in return.

_ I need to be needed, more than anything in the world. _

Till _did_ need him. _All_ of him. Not just Richard on his best behavior, moving like on thin ice around him. He needed him to be happy, complete, and unconcerned. Yes, he was in love with him, but on top of it Richard was his best friend. And he needed him back that way, too.

So maybe it really was that easy. Richard had hurt him, so much. And Till had hurt him so much in return. And yet they were still here, still clinging to each other. Wasn’t that enough? Wasn’t that a start? Wasn’t that everything anyone really needed as foundation to build on?

Richard seemed so ready to forgive him. Maybe it was time for Till to forgive him, _truly forgive him_ , in return. It should be easy, now that he understood him.

Richard _was_ right, this _should_ be easy. They loved each other. They had been through hell and yet they were still together. What else was there? Who could truly account for all risks in life anyway. 

_Damn the park_ , Till thought, and turned on his heel. He felt lighter suddenly, like breathing suddenly went down deep all the way to his stomach again. He hadn’t even realised how tense he had been.

——-

It took him a good 20 minutes to realise he was lost. First he thought that he’d just underestimated how far he had walked while deep in thought. The houses looked unfamiliar, but then all of these houses and street looked the same and it was getting dark.

Then he thought he just had to have missed it. He spend a good good hour walking back and forth on an increasingly unfamiliar street, walking back all the way to where he thought he’d turned around at first to start from scratch. It didn’t work.

By the time he definitely had exceeded any version of “don’t stay too long”, he stopped walking with an annoyed sigh, feeling entirely inconvenienced, and searched his pockets for his phone.

It wasn’t there.

Till could see it, suddenly with a startling clarity, sitting on Richard’s bedside table. He hadn’t used it for days on end. It probably wasn’t even charged.

That was when he started to truly worry.

He spend another 30 minutes asking people on the street for landmarks he thought he remembered but could never adequately describe or that nobody seemed to know. Once he had to admit to himself that that wasn’t working either, he was a hairline away from descending into full on panic.

He didn’t actually know Richard’s address. He’d never even asked for it. He was sure he had it somewhere, put down with a bunch of paperwork Richard had left with him before his move. He must have glossed over it in their tour books, or on tax reports for the band. But he couldn’t remember it. He’d never actually cared enough.

He didn’t know Richard’s phone number either. He’d saved it just once, as “Scholle, NY” and never looked at it again. Back in the day, he’d always known Richard’s landlines by heart. He still remembered the last one. But ever since they all had mobile phones, he’d not really bothered to memorize any of them anymore. He called people to organise shit, and in Richard’s case that was a prepaid, disposable number everytime as soon as he touched down and however long they stayed in the same country. The times they talked on tbe phone across an ocean and across time, Richard had called him or he’d relied on his phone’s memory.

He had no way of contacting him, no way to get back to him, no way of letting him know he’d take longer than planned.

God, Richard would be so mad and disappointed in him. What boyfriend didn’t know his partner’s adress? Who didn’t even know a bloody phone number?!

Till felt tears well up in his eyes. Richard deserved so much better than him. His own optimism from what felt like only moments ago suddenly seemed so silly. What the hell had he been thinking? Why would sweet, perfect Scholle stay with someone this stupid. This malfunctioning. Somone who didn’t even remember his adress or thought to take a phone.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

But _no_. Richard _knew_ him. He knew how much the increaisng demand on always having to communicate annoyed him. He was used to him losing touch out of forgetfulness and oversight. He’d dealt with him dropping of for days on end before. He’d understand. He’d be annoyed as hell, but he’d understand. He’d earn a sermon for sure, oh, Richard would be pissy as fuck. But he’d never held it against him before. He wouldn’t now. Richard loved him. Richard had promised to prove him wrong. And Richard always kept his promises.

_Think, Lindemann._

He _did_ know the emergency number of their management. It hadn’t changed in 8 years. They would know Richard’s address. All he needed was an adress and a cab.

Till took a deep, shaky breath. He could do this. Just push the wall. Get to work. Get home.


	18. Abyss Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Till finds his way back and gets lost in a new way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for suicidal ideation.  
> I am terribly sorry about this but it needed to happen this way.

In the end, it took him another 6 hours to get back. Once again, the time difference proved to be his enemy. By the time he found a phone booth, it was 2 am in germany and noone picked up. Till sat down in some 24 hours non-stop open diner and bought a cup of coffee that he tried to stretch out until it was cold, just to have an excuse to sit in the warmth and out of the rain. His head was spinning in circles - from guilt to shame - and back to the half hopeful, half anxious Richard shaped flutter in his stomach.

Half an hour later he tried again, but unsurprisingly the phone at home was still unmanned. He tried Paul’s and Flakes’s and Olli’s landline, but Schneider’s he couldn’t remember.

Nobody picked up.

He wandered around a bit more, slowly getting soaked until he couldn’t tell anymore if the ache in his bones was from the cold leaking into his clothes or the way wanting to get back to Richard took his breath away.

He kept doing that for a few hours more - trying to call home, getting a drink somewhere warm, trying once more to find his way. It was 4 am in New York by the time their assistant finally picked up the phone and gave him Richard’s street name and a house number in a confused and sleepy voice. By the time the cab stopped in front of the familiar house, Till only felt a numb relief. His energy for worrying had run dry hours ago. He would have given a kingdom for warm dry clothes and a hug and a bed, and more than that for the hug alone. He weakly pressed the doorbell, and waited.

To his surprise, somebody else opened. 

A man, maybe in his mid to late 30s, with dark blonde hair cut into a stylish half mohawk. Till vaguely recognised him, frombackstage, or from some event Richard had dragged him too. One of his New York friends. He wasn’t sure. Currently he stared him down with dark brown eyes and such obvious displeasure, Till instinctively took a step back.

“Uhm, I ...” Till started to say, but he got interrupted.

“It’s _him_ ,” the man called into the apartment, and then pushed the door open fully before turning and not sparing another glance at him. Till tentatively stepped inside and closed the door behind him. There was a sick, foreboding feeling in his stomach. The warmth he had been waiting for so badly hardly reached him.

This wasn’t good.

In fact, it was way, way worse.

Richard hesitantly tapped from the living into the hallway. He stopped the moment their eyes met, at the other end of the room. Till’s heart sank, heavy like stone.

Oh no. 

_ No, no, no. _

Richard looked a mess. His hair was matted to his head, his eyes glassy and bloodshot and disconcertingly wide. His brows were frozen into a permanently distressed curve and he’d bitten his lips raw and it made them look too red in his too pale face. _Snow White_ tumbled through Till’s mind, the image of an ancient story of snow and ebony and blood. A band aid on his left hand Till didn’t understand showed a faint brown spot that had leaked through. Richard hugged himself in a sweater way too big for him. His sweater, Till realised with a start, and the sense of possessiveness was so strong it nearly made him sob. This was all wrong. He was supposed to get home to care and warmth, and now home looked so fragile and afraid and broken. It was like a bad dream, a flashback to way worse times and way worse traumas.

“I am so sorry,” Till said tonelessly and empty. “I got lost.”

Richard unfroze, suddenly darted across the room and threw his arms around his neck. Till swayed under the impact, and just managed to catch them both from tumbling to the floor. “I’m sorry” he whispered again, holding on tight. Richard smelled of sweat and fear and too many cigarettes. His fingers dug deep into Till’s back.

“I’m so sorry!”

“Where the hell were you!!!” 

Richard pushed him away as suddenly as he’d embraced him, almost violently.

“ _Where the fuck_ have you been!!”

He shoved him again, very weakly this time, grabbing into Till’s sweater as if he was undecided wether to hold on or push him away.

Till raised his hands in defense. His stomach had turned into a tight, icy knot, a tangled mess of shame, fear and a pain that was no longer only his own.

“I got lost. I tried to find that little park you showed me, but I must have missed a turn. And then I couldn’t ... I forgot my phone and then I had to call home to get your adress and... I’m fine, ok? I really only got lost. I wasn’t even out long before I realised.”

Richard wildly shook his head and stepped away again. Till considered reaching out to him but decided against it.

“You should probably call the police and let them know he showed back up,” 

Richard’s friend piped in from the door. He had his arms crossed and lit a cigarette. He still looked at Till as if he were a particularly ugly insect.

What?!

What _the hell?!_

“Po... you called the _Police?!!_ ”

Till was stunned.

“I just got lost!!! I disappear all the time, you know that!!!”, he protested, appalled.

Richard’s eyes darted across the room and he crossed his arms again, hugging himself.

“Yes, _at home_! Or in some stupid jungle. Where the most dangerous thing is some ... dumb fucking idiot animal! This is a big ass city, with areas that are actually dangerous to walk into!” Richard’s voice was breaking in places, and then reassembled with white hot anger. If possible, his eyes looked even emptier than before.

Till mutely shook his head. Richard hated authorities. He was naturally deeply suspicious of them. Richard wouldn’t call the police? And asking for a friend’s support?! _Over this??!!_ He’d expected him to be very worried and possibly angry, but this seemed like an extreme overreaction.

“People have guns, you’re kind of shitty with the language, and then people overreact,” Richard went on and angryly wiped his eyes. They looked wet, but he wasn’t crying. Angry tears then. Helplessness perhaps, the one feeling Richard really didn’t handle well.

“Honey, you know that I can take care of myself,” Till said, as gently as possible. The endearment slipped over his lips without thinking, driven by the surge of protectiveness he felt, the need to take away the hurt he’d caused.

“Don’t call me that,” Richard snapped. “Don’t belittle me like that. Don’t act like I’m overreacting when you put me through hell like that.”

Till raised his hands again in defense.

“It wasn’t meant to go that way,” he tried to soothe, but suddenly he felt unbelievably lonely. The way Richard’s friend still stood in the doorway, watching them as if Till had done something particularly awful made him feel cornered and ganged up on. He recognized Richard’s frayed and stressed kind of pain that made him lash out at people, but it still hurt to be on his own like that. This was too much. He couldn’t help, he hardly could help himself.

“ _Fuck_ what it meant.” Richard wiped his nose and kept talking, about how worried he had been, about how you couldn’t expect people to not be worried sick if you just walked out on them, how he was supposed to take his phone with him, all of it. He talked about being left behind after what had seemed like a fight, how worried he’d been Till didn’t even want to come back, about how he was supposed to give a damn about what the people left behind felt like, how he wasn’t alone in the world and couldn’t just come and leave as he pleased. Richard talked about how he couldn’t count on him, how he never knew if he would be there, asked how he was expecting him to talk openly when every time that he did, Till walked out in him.

On another day, in another life, Till maybe would have been able to respond to the panic and fear he was facing. Maybe, if only it had been warmer, he could have found the place inside of him that held patience and love and care for the people he’d only ever want to protect.

Today, Till didn’t really want to listen anymore. Richard’s voice seemed suddenly distant, his anger and panic misplaced and like it had nothing to do with him anymore. He’d tried all night to get back, he’d already beaten himself up in all possible sort of ways, and he longed for being loved and cared for too. The disappointment he felt took him by surprise, with bitter bile rising in his throat. Maybe he’d already started to trust Richard more than he had thought, had started to count on him to love him in return more than he should have had. He’d tried to reassure himself with that thought all night, that Richard would be glad to see him, and comfort him, and now it all seemed to fall apart. He’d hoped, against better knowledge.

“Can you stop making it all about yourself for just one second?!” Till snapped. It happened with a small crack, like a dried branch underneath his boot on a hike. It just happened.

“You’re supposed to love me anyway. You’re supposed to prove me wrong, remember? But I guess you can’t do that. You never really gave a damn about how I felt through any of this right from the start. You just care about being loved and don’t know shit about loving someone in return.”

Richard looked _stricken_. His cheeks were suddenly wet.

“Ok, this is where I leave,” the man in the doorway piped in. Richard only seemed to remember him when he spoke and rubbed his face as if to clear his thoughts.

“Sorry, Dax. Thank you for coming.”

“Anytime, Reesh. I’ll call them and let them know.” _Dax_ stepped past them and rubbed Richard’s arm comfortingly on his way out.“You deserve better.”

That, and the use of that stupid american nickname Till hated so much stung more than the last, disapproving glance he threw his way before he headed out. Vicious jealousy reared his head over everything else, like his Till’s blood had turned to rotten milk and made him even angrier. Richard was so loved, what right did he have to pressure him so, when he so clearly didn’t need him?

With the door falling shut, the room went eerily quiet. Richard still stood infront of him, hugging himself and staring on the ground. Till felt frozen in place, unsure of what to do or how to make anything better. He swallowed, tried to get rid of the foul taste in his mouth, and it was so loud in the silence, it made Richard look up at him.

“It always hurts, doesn’t it?”

Richards eyes looked too dark and big in his pointy face, and they seemed to grow bigger with each passing second until the pleading expression in them all but filled Till’s vision. He had no answer, and his anger faded.

“What does?”

“Love.”

Till shrugged. He thought that was obvious.

_ Why don’t you ask Dax?! _

Richard wiped his nose with a sniff and straightened a little, like he was bracing himself. When he spoke again, his voice was calm.

“You know, you’re right. I don’t know anything. I keep trying to figure it out, but I always fail. I guess I’m just really shit at love.” He stared at the ground, contemplating. “I don’t know how to do this right. And you know, I’m so damn tired. I’m so damn fucking _tired_ of always failing. I just want to sleep. I’m going to bed.”

—-

Till fought the avalanche that threatened to come loose under his feet by cleaning up.

He emptied the overflowing ashtray, folded the blankets on the couch and opened the windows. He brought the empty glasses into the kitchen, one by one, to stretch it out, and closed Richard’s laptop, that was left open in the living room. He carefully wrapped up the cable, and neatly arranged it on the table.

In the kitchen, he found a broken glass. It looked like someone had violently wiped it off the counter top. In the sink, along with a few bigger shards, were a few sprinkles of blood. Seeing them cut into him, way worse than if he’d been cut himself and he ran a thumb over the edge of the biggest shard, wincing at the image of the bandaid on Richard’s left hand. His playing hand. He forced himself to throw the splinters away and went back to the slightly ajar bedroom door to watch Richard’s curled up shape. He still hadn’t moved. He had to really be sleeping then. That was good. He’d feel so much better after.

He went back into the kitchen to empty the dishwasher, and then he had nothing left to do. He stood motionless in the room for a good 10 minutes, before he shuffled into Richard’s studio to sink down on the small two-seater couch that was squeezed in between cabinets and a shelf to give visitors some place to sit.

He had a hard time feeling anything. There was a dull throbbing in his left knee from walking around all night, but the panic and worry of the last hours felt distant, like something that had happened to someone else. He tried to ground himself, feel his own weight sinking into the leather the way he would before a show, but it wasn’t working. He was weightless, like a ghost, trapped in a fever dream.

Restless, he got up again, looking around the room. One guitar was left leaning against the desk, an empty spot in a multistand indicating where it should go. An empty coffee mug was left on the desk. Something more to do.

He grapped the mug, but couldn’t bring himself to touch the guitar, his fingers hovering over the fretboard and unwilling to cooperate. He brought the mug into the kitchen and stared at the clock.

6 am. Richard would wake up in a couple of hours. Maybe at noon. Maybe 2 pm. Then he could even wake him up, that was a good night’s sleep, enough for him to not be so frazzled anymore. And then they would talk, and everything would be fine. Rich would be sorry and withdrawn, but that was really fine. He was very cute when he was that way. Cute and vulnerable and eventually cuddly, and then they could just kiss a bit and maybe he could convince Scholle to cook pasta again.

He went back into the studio and plopped down on the sofa, blinking against the light at the ceiling.

He didn’t believe it.

He could try and rationalize and sweet talk himself as much as he wanted, he didn’t believe his own weak attempts at reassurance.

Richard was leaving him. Before it had really even begun. He wasn’t going to magically wake up from this nightmare, life didn’t work this way.

He’d said it so loud and clearly. He was tired of it.

What else was there to understand?

His own optimism from only hours ago suddenly seemed so silly. What the hell had he been thinking? Of course Richard would leave him. Why would he be with someone this stupid. This malfunctioning. Somone who didn’t even remember his adress or thought to take a phone.

Stupid, stupid, _stupid_.

Succumbing to that thought was strangely relieieving. No dread kept at bay by trying to keep it under wraps, just naked undilluted horror. Something that could be dealt with in action. Step by step, a list maybe.

The darkness stretching out in front of him was strangely clear, like obsidian, sharp at the edge and black as night.

Rammstein was over.

He wouldn’t be able to do that anymore, not after this. He’d go home, he’d ban all of it from his life, and maybe, finally become a forester. He’d take care of nature, care for the young trees and baby deer until he’d forget Richard’s face and the hate his bandmates would have for him after he failed them. It was worth a try, try to find peace out there between the smell of pine and earth. He could do that. It was a small chance, but he could still end it in case he didn’t manage. It was a comforting thought.

Till curled up on the small couch. It was so cold. All the little status lights in Richard’s amps stared at him, like a thousand hungry little eyes. The blood rushing in his ears was as loud as the roar of a crowd. He instinctively searched for Paul and Oliver to his right, steadfast and firm, but they weren’t there. He thought of Schneider, of his guiding rhythm, and of Flake’s trust in him in the back. They were gone too. To his left was the center. It was so black and cold he didn’t dare look at it. 

—-

  
  


Bright lights and gentle, prodding fingers in his face brought him back.

“Till!!”

“Till, wake up!”

Richards concerned, wide eyed face swam before him. His fingers were running through Till’s hair, featherlight and annoying, like flies walking over him. Out of instinct he swatted his hand away.

“Till, it’s just me.”

He knew that. He didn’t care.

Richard’s hand landed on his arm, with a gentle squeeze. Of course he would be kind and concerned. Till didn’t want his kindness. He wanted him to be mean, so he had a reason to be as angry at him as he wanted to be.

He tried to focus, to ask him to go away. He didn’t find a voice to say it so he just turned his head away, willing Richard to understand.

“I woke up, and you weren’t there and ... I thought I had just dreamt and you’d never made it home and ... Till, please talk to me...” Richard’s voice faltered and his hand fell away.

“I panicked. I am so sorry.”

Till closed his eyes and hoped he’d take the hint. Richard being crouched next to the sofa silently while the minutes stretched out like bland chewing gum was distracting and irritating. He was breathing too loud, and he emitted body heat and he still smelled of sweat and cigarettes and all he wanted was peace and quiet and privacy while he was falling apart.

Richard was really shitty with his privacy. He supposed he ought to know that by now.

“Come on,” he finally said, a grim determination in his voice. Till didn’t need to open his eyes to know that his jaw would be clenched and his brows drawn together.

“Can you sit up? You can’t stay here.”

Till thought he could stay here perfectly fine, and that he probably couldn’t get up, but explaining that cost considerably more energy then just doing what he was told so he nodded.

Richard touched his forhead again. His hand was blessedly cool and dry and determined this time.

“You’re way too hot. Fever? Did you never get out of those wet clothes last night?”

Till didn’t care. He couldn’t remember. He just shrugged.

“Till, please ...” Richard’s pleading voice tugged at something in his chest he didn’t want to feel anymore.

“Go away.”

The prodding fingers on his forehead stilled and then disappeared. The silence was a short lived relief. Then the hands came back, falling on his shoulder this time.

“No.”

Why could he be so pig headed?

“I’m trying to die. Could you just let me do that in peace?”

“Sure,” Richard said with bitter sarcasm. “When we’re a 100 and they’re feeding you through a tube I’ll consider it.”

“That’s not gonna happen to me,” Till said. “I’d rather stick my head into a nest of ants. Or electrecute myself in a bathtub.” The darkness was comforting, and he fled into it, hoping it would scare Richard off, hurt him enough to drive him away. His head ached, a throbbing uncomfortable heat.

Richard seemed frighteningly unimpressed. 

“We can get creative about it when the time comes,” he said coolly. “But right now, you’re going to bed and sleep it off.” 

His voice was icy, but his hands on Till’s skin were gentle, his touch warm and firm.

He did get his way, in the end, like always. Till didn’t have the energy to resist him and his head was pounding which each step to the bedroom, dragged along on strong shoulders before Richard made him get out of most of his clothes and forced him to lay down. The duvet was warm, finally. The sudden comfort almost made him feel ashamed of his own petulance.

“I’ll be right back,” Richard said and tugged at the pillow before he disappeared. Till almost wished he’d stay.

When he reappeared, he carried a glass of water and a pack of pills.

“I know you don’t like these, but it’s just flu medicine. It helps with the pain, and it will help you sleep. Could you do that for me?”

Till watched Richard kneel on the bed. His hair was in disarray, his shoulders drawn in, and his eyes framed by tired lines that seemed to age him half a decade. His hand with the water glass shook slightly, but his mouth was firm and determined.

_ My Richard. _

“I would do anything for you,” Till said.

Richard just looked sad.

“This will be quite enough for now.”

A little while later, when the pill started working and Till felt his body weight returning and dragging him to sleep, Richard held him tight and bedded his head in his lap. His finger ran through his hair, scratching his scalp. It felt nice.

“Till?”

“Hmm?”

Till felt soft lips pressed into his palm before Richard knotted their fingers together.

“Nothing. Sleep, allright? I’m here.”


	19. Fucked Up

Richard read his _Production Secrets Behind The 100 Biggest Hits Of All Time_ book without a single sentence reaching his brain. Still, trying to concentrate on it was a small distraction, a flimsy thread to grasp. Till still slept in his lap, and he could feel him breathe against his thigh. The rise and fall of his chest was reassuring, as was the way Till’s black, mussed up hair had finally dried against his forehead. Richard wasn’t an expert and had no thermometer at hand, but it seemed his fever had broken.

He turned a page and skimmed over the photographs detailing how to record a drum reverb with the help of a garden hose without seeing it. The book was supposed to distract him from Till, and it didn’t succeed, and it succeeded in distracting him from his panic even less. The sense of rootlessness and loss of control he tried to run from seemed like a wave towering over him with a pitiful small chance of escape. It followed him around wherever he went, and last night it had caught him, overpowered his synapses and triggered them to go off too fast and without any proportionality. And the load had hit the wrong person.

His book did distract him enough to miss the exact moment Till woke up. When he looked down the next time, he just met two dark, inquisitive slits observing him with deep intensity. Till’s breathing hadn’t changed and so he’d just not noticed.

Richard put the the book away with shaking hands. He just couldn’t keep them still, like they had abandoned him, so he put one hand against Till’s cheek, for stability. The scruff growing in comfortably scratched his skin. He liked that tickle so much, Richard thought. Too much to ever go without again, that bit of friction that felt like it could keep him from slipping up.

“ _Hey_ ...”

He didn’t manage more than a whisper.

Till remained still for several moments in which Richard thought he could hear his own blood run slow and slower. Then he blinked and started to reach out to him with heavy, sluggish arms.

It was naive, perhaps, to try and find shelter in the same place that had at times caused so much doubt and heartache in recent weeks, but Richard instinctively sought it out anyway. Till’s embrace was home, was grounding him, held him together and he’d be damned before he’d let an opportunity pass to be folded into that warmth. Till’s arms circled around him very tightly and the tenderness broke his heart all over again. Whatever he had expected, it wasn’t necessarily _that_.

Richard found Till’s lips without really having to search for them. Till kissed him like he always did - a little shy, but very clever and so very softly, and like he made everything just about him. Richard wished that for once, he’d just let go. Take something for himself. Devour him, take revenge if necessary, fine by him.

“Breathe.” Till grumbled low into his ear when they broke apart and he stroked Richard’s spine firmly. “You’ll be alright.”

Richard disagreed. He certainly would _not_ be alright, not if Till wouldn’t say _we_ will be alright soon, or reassured him that they would stay together. He would not at all be alright if he didn’t know Till would be alright too, and he wouldn’t at all be alright before he’d forgiven him. And if he didn’t ... then he might not at all be alright ever again. What if he didn’t. _Oh god, what if he didn’t._

“You’re panicking. Deep breaths. Like me, ok?”

Richard blinked, a little dizzy, and stared into Till’s dark, sad eyes. Right. Breathing. He might have forgotten about that.

Till’s singer and swimmer lungs were like big bellows pumping, so it was easy for him to say to take deep breaths. Richard tried and it felt a bit like trying to move an elephant standing on his chest, but Till’s expanding and contracting ribs against his torso provided a rhythm for him to follow. He had to force air in and out consciously, as if the reflexes that were supposed to help him pump oxygen had stopped existing, but then, very slowly, the fog faded

“I am so very sorry I scared you so much.” Till’s voice was low and uncertain when he spoke.

“I didn’t know where you were,” Richard said, stating the obvious. “I didn’t know why you didn’t come back.”

Till’s arms tightened around him.

“I know.”

“I didn’t understand why you left in the first place. I thought we were doing ok, I thought ... I didn’t mean to upset you. I only wanted to make you happy. I should have known asking you that way would .. would upset you. I didn’t want you to feel unwanted. I only ... _I didn’t mean it that way._ ”

“Shhhhh.” Till gently brought some distance between them. Richard didn’t like that, and tried to keep close, but in the end Till only took his face between his big hands and kissed him again. It was just a quick soft peck, but it felt so real all the same.

“Please don’t cry,” he said.

“I’m not!” Richard argued.

Till ran his thumbs over his cheeks. They came away wet.

_Oh_.

“But I am _not_!!” Richard insisted, but of course he was.

Something about seeing and becoming aware of his own tears let in an entire flood of them. Suddenly he couldn’t stop them, a scorching hot, stinging stream that blurred his vision into blinding color and it was even worse than on tour. On tour, Paul had reigned in his tears by making fun of him. Till didn’t make fun of him, quite the opposite, he looked heartbroken and worried and a lot insecure. He tried to wipe away Richard’s tears and looked like he took them very seriously indeed.

“I am scared of losing you too, you know.” Richard felt the need to explain himself, and the words seemed as overwhelming a flood as his tears. “We keep talking about how you think that I’ll leave you. But I keep thinking that you will walk out on me and that it will be like on tour again. Or sometimes I think I’ll disappoint you and you will realize that you’ve just build some sort of fantasy around me that I can never live up to.”

Richard wiped his eyes to be able to catch Till’s at least long enough to make the point he really needed him to understand. “I’m scared of that most of all.”

Tills lips trembled a bit.

“And that’s why you call the police on me?” he asked, doubtfully.

“No, I ...” Richard faltered. The sick feeling of failure and shame seemed too insurmountable. How could he explain his complete overreaction without admitting to selfishness and without making everything about himself again? Till was right, he was so unable to care for anybody else. He squeezed his eyes shut against the inevitable scrutiny.

“I think I called the police because I thought ... i think because the possibility that something might have happened to you was almost easier to live with than the possibility that you had walked out on me. So I told myself something must have happened to you.”

Till stayed very still, and Richard kept talking. He knew he was rambling at this point, he wasn’t even sure if he was making sense. Still, he needed to explain.

“You were so right, I don’t ... I don’t know how to do this. I should have known that you needed me. I should’ve ... I should have checked in on you. I shouldn’t have leFt you alone with those thoughts. I only keep hurting you. I am so awful.”

Till sighed and started shifting. Richard could feel him, propping his head up on his hand and looking down on him. Then he feltknuckles softly touching his skin, almost playfully.

“Richard, your head just runs away without you sometimes. You’re definitely not awful. You’re pretty amazing, actually.”

Richard opened his eyes and blinked against the midday light. Till looked down on him with clear eyes, his palm coming to rest curling warmly around his ear.

“And this morning, you knew _exactly_ what I needed. You were perfect.”

Poor Till. He really didn’t see the problem, didn’t he.

“You can’t give me credit for fixing something I was responsible for breaking to begin with?”

Till sighed again.

“You weren’t responsible for that.”

“But ...”

“You _weren’t_. I had a horrible night, and I didn’t realize how horrible it was for you too, and I took it personally. I couldn’t take care of you, and you couldn’t take care of me, and instead of seeing that we best go to bed together and trust that we could still take care of each other the next day, we messed it all up because we both expected the worst from each other.”

Richard didn’t know what to say.

“I realised that, while walking yesterday. We’ve been so busy hurting over all the ways we’ve failed each other, we lost sightof all the ways we’ve always managed to stick together. And then I got lost, because I’m an idiot.”

Till bumped his forehead against Richard’s and looked into his eyes with utmost sincerity. 

“I _promise_ you, I only got lost. And I am so sorry it scared you so much. I didn’t realize you were so scared of losing me. I should have known better than expecting so much faith from you after everything, not when I had so little faith in you this entire time. It was hypocritical.”

Till stopped talking and the room fell quiet. He took back to stroking his hair, and Richard took the time to watch his face hovering over him.  


It was relaxed into a warm, melancholic expression. Till’s eyes were downcast, their signature sad shape accentuated by the way crying and lack of sleep had colored his lids a few shades darker. His black hair showed silvery roots at his temples, sparkling like glitter, and fell in thick strands into his face. Objectively it might need a good wash, but then Till had always looked best when he was at his most unruly. Stupid country boy, getting lost in a big city. Stupid idiot, for making him love him so hard.

“We’re both pretty fucked up, huh?” Richard assessed, finally.

Till snorted and collapsed heavy on top of him.

“Ooff.”

“Sorry,” Till said, muffled against his neck. He didn’t sound sorry at all, which was only fair. He did feel good, heavy and pliant on top of him like that. Richard wriggled somewhat fruitlessly against the mass of muscle until he could free his arms to hug back as tightly as he could.

“No more city exploring without a phone.”

“Hmm,” Till agreed. “No more trans-continental moves without prior conversations.”

“Not even if I move back to Berlin one day?” 

“Not even then. Maybe New York is growing on me.”

“It is not. You hate it.”

“Hmmm,” Till agreed again, and placed clumsy, tired kisses at his throat.  
  


—-

The horror and pain of the last hours faded slowly. They slept most of it off together, dozing for hours with tangled limbs and their mouths lingering against each others sweaty skins. When they woke up, they curled around together, finding new ways to make their bodies fit. It got a little easier each time.

Sometimes they talked.

“Did you really want to die?”

Till ran a caressing index finger down Richard’s nose. His eyes sparkled, full of life.

“I felt like I _wanted_ to want to die. I don’t particularly like being alive, sometimes. But it’s always just theoretical. You don’t have to worry about me.” He frowned. “I promise that too.”

_ I will always have to worry about you. _

“I don’t want you to feel like that. I know you often do, and I trust you. I just wish I could change it.”

Till kissed the tip of his nose. It was so tender, Richard thought his heart surely would give out from having to beat through that much love.

“It never scared you. Other people, they get that horrible pity in their eyes when they look at me, when they see it. You never do.”

Richard shrugged.

“Other people just like to lie to themselves about what the world is like. You don’t, you’re too brave for that. And not stupid enough.”

Till’s eyes were full of tears when he kissed him.

“Thank you.”

—-

Till told him he shouldn’t worry about disappointing him anymore. “I tried to fall out of love with you for over a decade. I didn’t manage, so I don’t think you have anything to worry about now.” He grinned his most mischievous, fangy smile. “Consider that you’re not as much of an idiot as you used to be as well.”

Richard stuck his finger into his stomach as deep as he could manage.

“Ouch! That actually hurts!”

“But you _will_ tell me, if I do something wrong, right? If you don’t like something I do?” he insisted.

“Eh... If it’s important?” Till evaded him.

“No, _always_. I know you, you’ll only consider yourself hurt enough to tell me once I already broke your heart. You need to _always_ tell me.” Richard paused. A little self reflection wouldn’t hurt. “I promise I’ll try to be better at taking criticism.”

Till tried to distract him with sloppy kisses against the corners of his mouth.

“Hmm.”

“Till!! _Promise me!_ ”

Till mumbled something against his chest.

“What?”

Till hugged him for a moment longer and then marginally moved his head so he didn’t mumble right into his skin anymore.

“I said, ‘fine, I didn’t like how you got mad at me infront of your friend’”.

Oh.

_Right_.

Richard winced.

“I’m sorry. You’re right, that wasn’t fair.”

“Who is he even?” Till kept grumbling against his ribs.

“Dax is Emilie’s partner. You know? She took care of my apartment. They’ve been good to me.” Richard hesitated. “He likes me a little too much, I guess.”

“Which is precisely why you called him,” Till said darkly.

“I guess, yeah.”

Till stayed still. The penny dropped with delay, but then Richard struggled to hold back laughter.

“Wait, are you jealous?!”

Till held out his hand and tilted it back and it in a so-so motion. Richard coughed from a surpressed giggle.

“Welcome to my world.”

Till scoffed.

“You are never jealous.”

Richard was incredulous.

“Uhm. Yeah, I am?! I’m jealous all the time.”

Till flipped around and stared up at him, his eyebrows comically raised. His surprise was absurd, or would have been if everything wouldn’t have been so fucked up.

“You are?”

“Yeah? Of course I am.”

Till blinked and started to say something before he fell silent again several times before he finally spoke again. 

“But _of whom_?”

His disbelief made Richard smile. It was adorable, even despite the ridiculous level of ignorance.

“Everyone? All the people on tour? Those girls, I want to strangle every single one of them. Peter, Matti, Joey, Andreas ...” Richard hesitated. He didn’t want to cause any drama, and yet ... “Flake.”

Till’s eyes grew even wider.

“You’re jealous of _Flake_?!!”

Richard shrugged, heat rising to his face. He knew he was being ridiculous, but the way Flake had not left Till’s side on tour and seemingly had picked a side - and not his side - still gnawed on him. He’d gotten all the time spend, when he had gotten nothing but silence. Flake had taken his place. At least some of it.

“You’ve gotten very close,” he said as casually as he could manage. “You spend a lot of time together.”

Till seemed about to protest, but then closed his mouth and bumped his nose into Richard’s cheek instead. The affection in it made him feel even more ridiculous.

“Flake told you about me, didn’t he.”

Richard squirmed. He didn’t want to throw Flake under the bus, despite his jealousy. He also couldn’t lie to Till.

“Told me what?” he asked innocently.

“ _Richard_ ,” Till warned.

“I don’t want to get in between you two.”

Till rolled his eyes dramatically.

“There is nothing to get in between. I’m glad he told you, after all.”

Richard shrugged, unconvinced.

“I don’t think Flake likes me very much.”

“He adores you. You’re just riddling him. You’re opposites.”

“Hmm.” Richard remained sceptical.

Till sighed, and rolled over to tug Richard’s head under his arm in a way that had him struggling to breathe. 

—

“Rich? Rich!!”

“Wha ...?”

Richard groaned, voice thick with sleep and fighting to become awake.

“Do I make you happy?”

“Of course.”

“Really?”

Richard yawned, and opened his eyes.

“ _Yes_.”

“Because ... I don’t only want it to be this with you. I want you to think of positive things when you think of me ... Not just this ... struggle ... Like you said, you wanted love to be simple ...”

Richard closed his eyes, confident he could just go back to sleep. He thought of coffee in the morning, and Till sitting to his feet while he was writing, and being held during the night, and thought it was fully unreasonable that he had been woken up for _this_.

“It’s not your responsibility to make me happy, but I do think of good things.”

Till fidgeted. Richard tried to ignore it and to drift back to sleep in his warm, cuddly cocoon, but there was no such luck.

“But, Rich ...”

“Till, we don’t _do_ happy.”

“But you wanted it to be easy ...”

“Easy things are never worth it and also fucking boring. Can I sleep now?”

There was a smile in Till’s voice when he answered. 

“Fine.”

—-

Eventually, Richard argued, they had to get out of bed for more than taking a piss. It took a considerable amount of prodding and nudging, but after bribing Till with ordering take away (butter chicken again), and accusing him of turning into a sloth, he agreed to take a shower with him. Richard snuck in a quick changing of the sheets, which Till helped with.

Begrudgingly.

Under the shower, Richard washed Till’s hair. Or at least he tried, but he really only managed to get a load of shampoo into his eyes and slip when he stood on his toes to massage the top of Till’s scalp. Till, it turned out, wasn’t above laughing at him after all. He took the sting out of it by kissing him very gently under a soapy, lukewarm stream of water with his eyes closed, so at least he didn’t see his beet red face.

Richard couldn’t remember how later, but that innocent, clumsy kiss somehow turned into a frantic mess of tangled limbs. They stumbled out of the shower blindly, and Richard wasn’t sure if he was pushing his singer or if he was being pulled along, all he knew was that he needed to feel Till’s hot, quivering body under him _right now_ , as closely and quickly as he humanly could, and Till was right there in it with him, judging by the painful way he grabbed at his wrist to pull him after behind and towards the wash table to bend over it.

“Hurry,” he hissed, dark and short, and reached back with his free hand to start and work himself open. “Please, _hurry_.”

Richard _did_ hurry, and only succeeded to wipe an entire box of q-tips, shower gels and a half empty first-aid kit out of the cabinet while angling for a spare tube of lube with shaking hands. The loud clatter cut cruelly and startling through the buzz in his ears and made him seek out Till’s familiar safety even harder.

He pushed in a little to fast and a little too sudden and Till gasped for air and whined, only to push back to meet him, eager and desperate.

“Richard, _stop playing_ , for once!” he hissed through gritted teeth and pulled him forward by his arm. Till tucked his hand against his mouth and down on the wash table, so Richard was forced to lean in with his face pressed against Till’s back.

“Just ... fuck me ... _please_ ...”

He couldn’t really escape the iron grip on his arm or the yearning in Till’s voice that way, and Richard had no choice but to let his love have exactly what he was asking for.

The heat of skin and hot, panting breath against his hand, the cold of the marble top, the frantic rhythm Till drew him in for - Richard got carried away in it until his muscles started straining and didn’t quite obey him anymore. He had no time to be self conscious, he stopped giving a damn about how his voice sounded when he moaned out loud, chasing the high was all he could think about, that and how utterly, stupidly in love he was with this man.

Till had stopped responding with movements a few seconds or perhaps a few aeons ago, and now just fought to keep standing. He made a sound each time Richard thrust into him, a deep mewl like that air was knocked out of him each time, and let him take revenge.

Richard took _revenge_ on him, for the pain, the doubts, the denied kisses and the too careful ones. It was payback time, for not letting him _in_ inside that spanish hotel room and for shutting him out the weeks after. It was instinctive, greedy and animalistic, but it was good that way and made him forget all the times they’d touched each other full of the carefully considered fear that they could touch the wrong way. This was trust. This was _his_. Richard took ownership, because this was _his_ space to take and _his_ pleasure to give and it was his alone, and Till better remember it.

Their legs gave out and they sank to the floor after, foreheads leaned together to hold each other up. The room had fallen very quiet and their gasping became like white noise, adding to the calm. Richard closed his eyes against the world spinning.

“Did I hurt you?” he murmured. His tongue felt thick and clumsy.

“No,” Till whispered, still breathless.

“Liar,” Richard accused him, and swayed. He felt small and weak and cold.

_Too much_.

Till kept him from falling by wrapping shaking arms around his waist. He whispered against his lips. He could feel his sardonic little smile through the kiss.

“Might be ... sore ... for a day. Happens.”

He gave Richard’s bottom lip a slow, savoring lick that made his stomach flip all over again. He felt sad.  


_ Way too much. _

“I like it,” Till breathed and angled his head to slip a gentle tongue into his mouth. Time stood still and stretched during that kiss, so warm and intimate and full of trust. Cold, wet hair tickled Richards cheek. Maybe it was tears, too. Till cupped his face like it could break at the barest touch.

“It’s like I can still feel you inside of me. You feel so good inside of me.”

Richards heart beat so fiercely, he wondered why it didn’t just burst. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is was one of those “If you read this you might read part of my soul and I really don’t want you to see that” chapters. Please be kind .___.


	20. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s the end of a story — and the beginning of a whole new life.

He watched Berlin float by through the dusty windows of his cab and whished they could go faster. The stop and go traffic tore on his nerves and set him on edge with impatience. If only he could have driven himself - then it would at least feel like he could do something about it. As things were, Richard was just a passenger.

He was running late. A good 20 minutes late to rehearsal, and his fault or not, the failure to comply with his duties would give the entire band a reason to rile him up, something he had no mind for today.

Richard checked his phone. Till’s last message was still on top of his inbox, a simple “ok, please hurry.” It was the last reply to a hectic exchange about a delayed plane, hours spend stuck in a holding pattern, an unplanned landing in Frankfurt and finally, catching a second machine to Berlin.

If the jetlag hadn’t been killing him already, he probably would have been Lufthansa’s customer service’s least liked person by now, but his back hurt, his eyes were burning with tiredness and he had to give Till some credit: this two continent idea was completely idiotic and most definitely unreasonably impractical.

“I’m in a cab now. 20 mins out!” he texted Till and hit send. Against all reason he hoped he’d get a reply right away, but his phone remained mute. Typical.

Richard sighed and allowed himself to close his eyes for a few minutes and tried to relax.

The worst part about all of this wasn’t just the endless dealing with air staff, or that he was 20 minutes late to rehearsal. The worst part was that he was 8 hours late _to Till_. He’d been supposed to be picked up by his very lovely boyfriend, to spend a few very lovely hours getting breakfast and kisses. They had been supposed to get a few moments alone after four weeks of separation, four weeks of giddy anticipation and lonely nights and four weeks of insecurity incubating somewhere buried deep - only to surface now, at the most unsuitable of times.

How would they even handle this? They had never spoken about that, which in retrospective seemed like a gross oversight.

Would they pretend everything was normal? Would they say something? Something like what, “ _by the way we are a couple now, could we change the bridge after the second verse?_ ” How would they react? Would they kiss in front of them? Richard hoped not, but then when and how were they supposed to kiss _at all_?

Stupid. All of this was so, so stupid. It shouldn’t matter, he was a grown man for heavens sake, and problems like this were supposed to be beneath him at this point. He just couldn’t help it, _that_ was the issue.

Richard checked his phone again. Still no reply. _Typical_. He let his head fall back against the seat with more force than necessary. If only he could quiet his mind.

Once the cabdriver had dropped him and his suitcase, carry-on and acoustic guitar case off by the corner to the building complex that was home to their rehearsal space, he decided he needed a minute. At this point, what difference did it make.

Richard fished his last cigarette out of his jacket. It was slightly bend, and he dearly hoped Till had remembered to bring him some more. There was no way in hell he would get through this afternoon on just one cigarette.

He looked around. Till’s supposedly black and shiny Audi stood in the driveway and looked like it had been taken straight through the middle of a field lately, and within the building, he could hear the muffled pounding of Paul’s Sansamp start and stop. He was just messing around, it seemed like.

The pavement in the yard had been renewed. It looked too new and clinical, a complete break to the surrounding streets and their torn up patchwork caused by the roots growing underneath and tearing the concrete open. Someone had painted over the fairly cool graffiti on the neighboring building with paint that didn’t match the original color. What a bad attempt at a clean up. He missed New York.

Richard sighed and mourned the end of his cigarette. There was really no use in postponing this any more.

—

The music hit him the moment he opened the door. Schneider, Olli and Paul were improvising over some of Flakes old synth lines that had been reworked so many times no one could tell if they were good or bad anymore, but that lingered around and refused to go like friends who’d overstayed their welcome. Perhaps they would still become a song one day. Till stood with his back to the door and rolled up a cable.

Richard swallowed and took a deep breath.

A quick rap against the doorframe that left his hand hurting was quiet against his bandmates’ noise, but it was enough to get their attention. Paul’s riff came to a screeching, stumbling halt and then there was a big hello, a lazy hug fromOli’s endless arms, a smile and a “finally!” from Schneider.

None of it mattered. Till stood in the middle of the room with his hands in his pocket and looked at him with a small, absent minded smile and light in his eyes. Richard’s stomach flipped and his knees wobbled dangerously when he made the four steps to get to the middle of the room. He felt naked.

Till hugged him like always.

Perhaps the squeeze was a little tighter, and lasted a little longer. Maybe his lips brushed Richard’s forehead in passing, or did it? It could be that his hand lingered at his waist, and maybe his “Hello, Scholle.” was a tiny bit hoarse, but really. Maybe he himself pressed a bit closer, maybe he lingered too long in that desperate moment where he tried to make up for four weeks of painful physical yearning, but it was fine. It was inconspicuous, and Richard was oh so stupidly grateful for that as he headed straight for his guitar.

Or at least it should have been.

Schneider dropped a drumstick. It fell with a clatter between the metal feet of his snare and made everyone jump.

“Holy shit. You two have figured it out!!”

Richard let the now familiar weight of his ESP drop on his shoulder and let his hands fall where they belonged. The rosewood was cool and smooth under is fingers, the familiar sting of his strings was warm. He strummed. It was slightly out of tune, which gave him the perfect opportunity to turn to the tuner in his pedal board and hide his face. Best to ignore that.

“Oh thank fuck,” Oliver said, and the relief in his voice was almost comical. “God, about fucking time. Please don’t ever do that again.”

“Guys,...” Till said warmly but with a warning in his voice.

“You disappoint me.” Paul was as always ignoring any social clues telling him to tone it down. “I thought once you got your whole tragic, star crossed lovers drama out of the way, you’d be all over each other.”

Richard realized he wouldn’t get away much longer with trying to deny his bandmates’ existence and threw a quick glance into the room. Everyone was staring at him expectantly, everyone but Till, who suddenly seemed to find his shoes terribly interesting. At least he seemed to be smiling, the unhelpful bastard. Even Flake scanned him head to toe.

“ _What_ ,” Richard snapped, “do you want me to fuck him on the couch right now?”

Fleeing forward had always worked for him.

There was a beat of silence before the wave of protest.

“No. No, please, _please_ don’t,” Paul said with a funny little grimace.

“Actually, don’t _ever_ do that. I still want to sit on that,” Schneider added, looking a little ill.

Oli snickered. Till had buried his face in his hand, but his shoulders were shaking from laughter.

“Good. Can we start then?”

“I’m glad,” Flake said, ignoring him. “I was really getting tired of feeling guilty about ruining your friendship. Even if you behaved like absolute idiots.”

“Maybe don’t blab about people’s secrets next time, then you won’t have that problem,” Till said helpfully. He caught Richard’s eye and smiled, that warm besotted smile Richard knew was reserved only for him.

“He made me,” Flake said, and pointed rudely at Richard.

“Erhm, I asked you one question and you crumbled,” Richard protested and broke away from Till’s eye contact with some effort. “Can we please play now?”

“We’re not playing.” Schneider hastened to change the topic. “We just played while we were waiting for you. We need to discuss the setlist changes.”

_ Please not that. _

Richard immediately dreaded it. He was not ready for one of those endless wrestling matches where they would talk in endless circles and got holed up in tight negotiations. He was too tired, too nervous and too god damn impatient to get out of here and be alone with his boyfriend, _for heavens sake._

He groaned and put his guitar back full of regret, before he slumped on the couch next to Till. So close. So god damned far away.

Till bumped his knee against his. Richard did his best to ignore him.

“I want _Asche_ back,” he said. Better to stake his claims right away.

“Me too,” said Olli. “And we can let _Rein_ go.”

“Abso-fucking-lutely not,” said Paul. “I am fine with _Asche_ coming in, but the only thing I am willing to sacrifice for it is _Los_.”

_ Oh here we go. _

“Are you _serious_?!” Schneider was incredulous. _Los_ was _his_ song, his front of stage song, he would never give it up.

“How about _Moskau_?” Till. “I don’t really want to sing that anymore.”

Richard’s head whipped around so fast, he could hear something in his neck pop.

“What?! But _why_?!!”

Till squirmed. “Just don’t.”

Translation: he didn’t think he was any good on it. Richard swallowed. The overwhelming instinct of wanting to protect him from having to do anything at all that he wasn’t 100% comfortable with warred with the part of him that under no circumstance _whatsoever_ wanted to let go of that song in the setlist.

“We’re not letting go of _Moskau_!!” Paul said vehemently, and unwittingly saved him from his predicament. Flake, it looked like, agreed.

Someone suggested just keeping it the way it was. Someone else pointed out that they all had wanted to change it the last time they talked.

Richard tuned out. What difference did it make? They would bicker back and forth and it would end with another lame compromise like it always did. Till would have to sing some song that made him tense up and develop a thousand yard stare, he’d have to play some boring song he’d already objected to getting on the album in the first place, Flake would sacrifice some song he really liked only to sulk over it for weeks on end.

Till let his hand fall next to his between their thighs, Richard sensed it more than he saw it from the corner of his eye. Hidden from the inquisitive eyes of their bandmates their knuckles touched, sending a jolt of warmth right into his stomach. Till’s fingers curled around his, just the fingertips, but then Schneider squinted at him and called for his attention.

Richard crossed his legs and shoved his hands between them.

“This is getting nowhere,” he hurried to say. “Can we talk about the videos for _Reise, Reise two_? We still have to decide on that.”

Beside him, Till seemed to fall in on himself. _Shit_.

“I’m still against calling it _Reise, Reise two,_ ” Flake said. “Maybe we should talk about that.”

And on it went.

An hour later, after they had reached and postponed two more paralyzing deadlocks in their negotiations and Till had grown increasingly quiet beside him, Richard had enough and called for a smoke break without waiting for any possible protest.

—-

When he stumbled outside, the sky had turned pink. The air was cool and surprisingly clean, and the silence was loud enough to let him hear how fast his heart beat. He leaned against the wall of the building and savored the grounding roughness of the harsh plaster. When he patted his jacket for a cigarette, he remembered he’d run out earlier. _Fuck_.

The door next to him opened with it’s signature screech. Till stepped out with his face hidden behind his cupped hands while he shielded his lighter from the wind. He offered the freshly lit cigarette to him without a word.

“Thank you,” Richard said, with genuine relief.

Till stuffed his lighter into his back pocket and leaned sideways against the wall next to him, close enough for their bodies to touch. He tugged Richard’s sleeve once, like shy child.

“Did I do something wrong?”

The anxiety rolling off of him in waves hit Richard with a shock of crippling guilt. He hurried to shake his head as vehemently as he could.

“You’ve hardly looked at me,” Till said to his feet.

“I ...” words left him. “I am sorry.”

Till tugged on his sleeve again, harder this time, forcing him to turn enough so he could slip a hand between his jean jacket and his t-shirt.

“I missed you like crazy.”

Till’s voice was soft and sad and so painfully honest, and something just gave. Richard turned and flung his arms around his neck and buried his face in the familiar smell of fresh air and male body. The stability was almost too much, the solidity of Till’s body drove tears to his eyes he blinked away quickly. He had to fight to talk around the lump in his throat.

“Missed you too.”

It came out flat and toneless, and he felt he didn’t deserve the way Till’s arm wound around him and held him so tightly.

Till managed to put so much love and emotion into a single sentence, and he didn’t need prompting to show any affection. And him? _Missed you too_? Not even _I_ missed you too? How about _I missed you more?_ How about _I missed you so much I couldn’t sleep or eat or do anything but write about 120 horrifyingly soft and cliche love songs about you?_

“I didn’t want them to see us,” Richard mumbled into Till’s neck by way of explanation. Till rubbed his back.

“But why? You’ve never had a problem with showing affection before.”

Because now, his affection wasn’t gentle and harmless, it was brutal intimacy. Because now, everyone surely had to see his innermost heart in the way they touched, wouldn’t they? They’d see how helplessly alone he really had been, how much he had needed this, how much he relied on this to save him. And if they saw it, they could belittle it, make fun of it, steal it away.

“It’s private now.”

“Privacy in _this_ band?”

Richard tightened his grip in a surge of desperate possessiveness.

“They’re already in every aspect of my life. I have to share you with them all the time. I want this for myself.”

_Please understand_.

Till squeezed him so hard he could barely breathe and gently swayed them back and forth. It was a relief so strong, he wasn’t sure he’d still be standing if he hadn’t been held up.

“Ok.”

Richard’s eyes burned suspiciously at that simple, uncomplicated _ok_. Luckily, no one saw this time, not even Till, and the minutes stretched while they were standing there holding on to each other. Till drew slow and lazy shapes on his back and caressed his scalp with gentle scritches, like he’d seen him do to others he had loved a dozen times. Somehow it drove home he really belonged to him.

“You look so tired,” Till said when they finally separated and maneuvered him back against the wall like he threatened to tilt over. It wasn’t a completely inaccurate assessment. Till touched his cheek.

Richard shrugged and did his best impression at nonchalance.

“Turns out I sleep like shit without you stealing my blankets.”

Till seemed to melt at that, his mouth turning soft. He tugged on the lapels of his jacket some more.

“I want to get you out of here. Take you home, run you a nice bath. Feed you.” He grimaced guiltily. “You understand that I’m disgustingly in love with you, right? I’ll probably embarrass you a lot, even if I try.”

“Or you could just chose not to,” Richard said and scowled out of principle. Disgustingly in love sounded intimidating and embarrassing and like everything he had ever wanted at the same time.

“Mhmm, but then I wouldn’t get you all cute and bristly.”

He grunted as a reply.

“I’m never cute.”

Till just grinned at that.

“I’m sorry. I’ve hid my feelings for you for such a long time, I guess I just want to shout it off the rooftops. I promise, I’ll be good.”

Guilt spilled like poison into his gut. Of course, _of course_ Till would feel that way. The sense of inadequacy came back with blunt force, that feeling that he was standing on a high wire stretched out between sky scrapers and had to concentrate on not looking down or else he might fall. He had no idea how to do this, no idea how to treat someone right, and Till seemed such a natural with his cuddling and nourishment and attention.

“It’s weird,” Richard said, “how the table has turned.”

“Hmm?” Till looked at him with inquisitive eyes and tucked a streak of hair back from his forehead.

“When all of this started, I was so sure of myself. And you were so spooked. And now here we are, and I got everything I wanted and am terrified of what to do with it, and you’re just ... perfect at it.”

Till took his hand. The shadow running over his face was a painful reminder that he, too, desperately needed this to work.

“I still want it,” Richard hurried to say. “More than ever. Which makes it even more terrifying.”

Till leaned in and put his head on Richard’s shoulder. His hand moved up to grip into Till’s unruly black hair on it’s own accord, he was helpless against the warmth of his nuzzling.

“Sounds like we’re just taking turns being the sensible one to me.”

That was Till, being all practical and stable. Like mother soil, perfect to propel growth and stability.

“I love you, so very much. You know that, right?” Richard tried to make up for his failure to express the depth of his feelings, to get at least some of it out of his system.

“Starting to.”

“Good.”

“But, Richard?”

“Hmm?”

“You still haven’t kissed me.”

Richard tugged on Till’s hair, just enough to get him to a place where he could rub his nose against Till’s and watch his eyes flutter close when he ran a thumb over his lips. They parted slightly under his touch. He was beautiful like that, all dark and gentle with lashes throwing long shadows over his skin. So beautiful, Richard’s heart clenched painfully with yearning, like it couldn’t catch up with being together again fast enough and instead was presented with a memory of the man he loved while missing him in the middle of the night.

When he replaced his thumb with his mouth, Till sighed blissfully and he could feel his shoulders relax. They kissed slowly, chaste at first with just a soft press of velvety skin, then a careful lick against an inquisitive tongue, then a slow advance into all the depth they could get. They had time, months of touring and no deadline on being together stretching in front of them, and Richard savored the rediscovery of familiar taste and rhythm with the gusto it seemed to deserve. _So good_.

Till’s hand dropped to his hip when he carefully started to nibble on his lower lip and found it’s way under his clothes, his fingers spread hot on his stomach.

Richard caught his tongue gently with his own, and Till ran two fingers under his waistband.  


His breath caught in his chest, Till licked the roof of his mouth and fiddled with the button of his jeans.

“Till ...” Richard broke away with a jolt of panic and more out of breath than he’d expected. His eyes flickered towards the door.

“They won’t come. I asked them to give us a minute,” Till said and chased his lips. Richard wanted to say no ... and couldn’t.

“Moment ... is kinda vague ...”

Till pushed his hand into his pants carefully and caught his gaze. His eyes were large and dark and hypnotic.

“I just want to touch you, not more. Please, just for a second, to remember how it feels. I missed you, _I missed you_ ...”

Richard’s mind went light and empty when all the blood left his head in a rush and he turned hard in Till’s palm. He couldn’t hold an undignified sound back from escaping his throat.

“I want to be alone with you,” he admitted desperately. Till caught the sound with his mouth. His thumb curled over his head after a few teasing slow strokes that were too gentle to ever get anyone off and too _god damn intimate_ for a quick grope in a parking lot. The hard lines of Till’s body, the still foreign and yet so familiar feeling of his erection through their clothes, his hand fondling him, it wiped Richard’s inhibition away with all it’s promise alone.

“... and do what? What do you want?”

“Whatever _you_ want ... I’ll do whatever you want, anything ...”

Handing over his body seemed like the perfect solution, the perfect way to express himself when words failed him. Sex could be like music, thoughts and feelings made tangible, and he wanted to take his love and make it tangible and lay it out for Till to take. If only it wouldn’t be so terrifying.

“No, I asked what _you_ want,” Till insisted and kissed along his jaw with the same slow rhythm of his hand.

Richard mustered all the courage he had to ask for it. It was still the scariest thing he had done in years.

“I think I want you on top.”

—-

Till went very still for several agonizing seconds.

“If you even want me that way,” he added quickly, voice small and embarrassingly weak. Richard had thought it impossible to be this scared of rejection.

“You mean ... you want me to ...” Till’s voice was blunt and strangely transactional when he spoke.

“ _Fuck me_ , yeah, do I really need to spell it out for you,” Richard snapped, hurt. Shame bubbled up in him like a deadly chemical and tightened his throat. He thought he was shaking.

Till blinked and drew a shaky breath. Slowly his hand withdrew from Richard’s crotch and relocated at his hip with a firm pressure. His expression turned desperate and wide eyed.

“Rich, you have _no_ idea... _Of course_ I want you like that, I want you in every way, I think about you all the time, in every way, what do you _think_ ...”

He drew another breath that sounded a hair away from a sob.

“I just got surprised, is all ...”

“Well, you never asked, so ...”

Till wildly shook his head and avoided his eyes. He tugged at his jeans and started to close it again for him with such benevolent care, Richard believed him every word, no matter how contradictory the action. He didn’t look at him, but he could see the blush stark on his cheeks.

“I didn’t want to push. I figured you’d let me know when you’re ready.”

“I might change my mind.”

“Of course,” Till said breathlessly, and struggled with Richard’s button. “It’s gonna be all about you.” After another try he managed to close the button. He cupped his chin with a warm hand and pulled him in for a soft, brief kiss.

“Now. I’ll vote _Asche_ in for you if you side with me on _Moskau_.”

“ _What_?!!”

“I said I’ll vote for ...”

“I heard what you _said_!” Richard knees were still shaking. “What I _mean_ is, are you seriouslytalking about _setlists_ to me right now?!”

Till threw him a sheepish smile and moved a centimeter away. His hand stayed at Richard’s hip, but it still felt too far.

“Yes? I needed the least erotic topic I could find. Not even _I_ want them to find me sucking you off out here.”

Richard took a deep breath, and tried to concentrate on coming back from that whiplash.

“Err.. uhm. Ok. Uhm. Yeah, ok, let’s do that.”

“Really?”

Too late Richard realized what he’d just agreed on. _Damn_.

“I’m against it, but if you insist, fine. I think you’re wonderful on _Moskau_ , but shit, ok. Keep in mind the rest of them might change their minds too.” He tried to back paddle as far as he could without breaking his word.

“I know.”

Till squeezed his hip and grinned at him guiltily. Richard willed away his hard on with super human determination. _Band_. This was still _band_ stuff. He grinned back.

Not a minute later, Olli pushed open the door and took long steps past them while dribbling a basketball towards the net at the end of the yard. He hardly looked at them. Till let go of him and hastily crossed his arms.

Paul followed a few seconds behind, munching on something. Richard winced at the repeated screech of the door and leaned into Till’s side as discretely as he could.

“Don’t kiss in front of me,” Paul calles while he skipped and missed the ball Olli passed him by the length of a hand.

Richard blushed - and turned indignant.

“What’s your problem, Landers you homophobe.”

“You’re like my family. It just would feel very incestuous.”

Richard and Till exchanged an incredulous glance.

“It is not,” they said in unison. Paul cackled - and missed another ball.

Flake opened the door without a sound and held it open for Schneider, who broke into a jog to join Olli and Paul and the basketball. His smile at them was a little embarrassed but warm when he leaned against the wall beside them.

“Don’t you two want to go home? It must have sucked that Rich’s plane was delayed so much.”

“What the hell are you doing Flake, don’t make allowances for them!!” Paul protested and came back out of breath. “Richard’s a spoiled brat already. _‘I can’t, I’m in New York, blah blah’_ \- Don’t give him more excuses to skimp?”

“Nah, come on!” Schneider interrupted before Richard could punch the little bastard. “Let’s give the lovebirds some time off. We can still discuss all of that tomorrow.”

_ Absolutely not. _

Richard would have rather died than expose his desperation to get away from their fruitless discussions to be alone with his boyfriend. Not ever would he give anyone, least of all _Paul_ , a reason to reproach him for letting the music slide in favor for his love life. That wasn’t him.

“We’re fine.” he said coolly. “Let’s get this over and done with. I’m ok with _Moskau_ going out.”

Paul grinned, and punched his shoulder.

“I’m just messing with you, man. Go home, you two deserve it. I promised Ari to be back for dinner anyway.” He paused for a second to think and then added: “I’m glad you worked it out. You look good together. Truly.” He said it, with a smile and without meeting Richard’s eyes. He felt a lump form in his throat for the thousandth time today.

“I’m off soon too,” Olli said calmly and bounced his ball towards the corner behind the garage where it skipped a few times and then settled. “Let’s just be back tomorrow.”

Richard swallowed. He wanted to agree, he wanted to leave, he just ... _he just couldn’t._ He looked to Till for help.

Till uncrossed his arms and returned his plea with a neutral expression and a warm smile in his eyes and waited for his decision. Till wanted to go home - Richard was a hundred percent certain of that - but if he decided to stay and make them all chew on leather for another two hours he’d not complain with a single word. Because he understood. He was a hundred percent certain of that, too.

He took a deep breath.

“Ok,” Richard said hoarsely and pushed his hand in Till’s, plain for all to see. He squeezed it reassuringly.  


“Ok. Let’s go.”  
  


** Ende **

****

**————————————**

**🖤**

I couldn’t, I could not, end this with anything other than with “ _Let’s go_.”

I know you’ll understand.

I posted the first chapter of this almost a year ago. I always knew I wanted it to come full circle, have them be back in the same rehearsal space, with someone running late, but as very different people. What I didn’t know was how much this story would do for me.

When I look back and see how much this stupid fic has helped me heal, has helped me put down my feelings and let them go and move on, I feel a bit stupid. It’s fanfiction, for fucks sake, it should not grow this big and important. But still that is somehow what happened and I think it might not have turned out to be this important if all of you hadn’t reacted with this much positivity and love and wonderful comments which motivated me to keep going.

This story was self therapy, but I think I might have not shown up to my sessions if I didn’t have you to cheer me on for it. I thought that if I could get like 30 kudos and a comment on this, I could die happy — and now there is nearly 300 of you, which is honestly a bit too insane to be true. Pinch me?

So, from the bottom of my heart, THANK YOU, for commenting, even repeatedly (what the fuck!) for becoming my tumblr friends, for the kudos, the friendly words, and every anonymous click. You mean the world to me.

**Dankeschön!!**

That being said — I am not ready to let these two go yet. This story, which I think will remain the biggest one I wrote for quite some time, is over, but there will be more. A 2-3 chapter prequel and a 2-3 chapter sequel as well as more [deleted scenes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26867359/chapters/65553778). Which btw, I am now taking requests for. So if you want to see an alternative view point, or a specific thing between them, drop me a line and I will see what I can do. 

I am also still writing [Lionheart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25636678/chapters/62234293) \- and would love to see some of you again there.

All that being said — if you’re on tumblr, [please say hi.](https://struwwelzeter.tumblr.com/)

🖤


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